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The Bancroft Library.

University of California » Berkeley

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XXII.
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XXIII.

XXIV.
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CONTENTS

‘SISTERS

SHORTLANDS
CLASS-ROOM
DIVER

IN THE TRAIN

CREME DE MENTHE
FETISH

BREADALBY
COAL-DUST

SKETCH-BOOK

AN ISLAND

CARPETTING

MINO

WATER-PARTY

SUNDAY EVENING

MAN TO MAN

THE INDUSTRIAL MAGNATE
RABBIT

MOONY

GLADIATORIAL
THRESHOLD

WOMAN TO WOMAN
EXCURSE

DEATH AND LOVE
MARRIAGE OR NOT

A CHAIR

FLITTING

GUDRUN IN THE POMPADOUR
CONTINENTAL

SNOWED UP

EXEUNT

113
128
127
188
149
161
199
208
221
245
256
279
291
307

318

339
370

374
385
402
409
466
501

_ CHAP: I. SISTERS

a Ursvuxta and Gudrun Brangwen sat one morning in the
_ window-bay of their father’s house in Beldover, working and

talking. Ursula was stitching a piece of brightly-coloured

4 embroidery, and Gudrun was drawing upon a board which
_ she held on her knee. They were mostly silent, talking as
_ their thoughts strayed through their minds.

** Ursula,’”’ said Gudrun, ‘** don’t you really want to get

‘married? *? Ursula laid her embroidery in her lap and
_ looked up. Her face was calm and considerate.

** I don’t know,”’ she replied. ‘* It depends how you

- mean.’’

Gudrun was slightly taken aback. She watched her

sister for some moments.

** Well,”’ she said, ironically, ‘‘ it usually means one
thing! But don’t you think anyhow, you’d be— ”’ she

darkened slightly—*‘in a better position than you are in now.”’

A shadow came over Ursula’s face.

** I might,” she said. ‘‘ But I’m not sure.’

Again Gudrun paused, slightly irritated. She wanted to
be quite definite.

** You don’t think one needs the experience of having
been married ? ”’ she asked.

**Do you think it need be an experience? ’’ replied

Ursula.

** Bound to be, in some way or other,’ said Gudrun,

' coolly. ‘* Possibly undesirable, but bound to be an ex-

perience of some sort.”

** Not really,”’ said Ursula. ‘‘ More likely to be the end
of experience.”’

Gudrun sat very still, to attend to this.

** Of course,’’ she said, ‘* there’s that to consider.’? This

q brought the conversation to a close. Gudrun, almost

angrily, took up her rubber and began to rub out part of

q her drawing. Ursula stitched absorbedly.

** You wouldn’t consider a good offer? ’’ asked Gudrun.
** I think I’ve rejected several,’’ said Ursula.
** Really!’ Gudrun flushed dark—‘* But anything
really worth while? Have you really? ”
| 3 7

WOMEN IN LOVE.

[°.2)

** A thousand a year, and an awfully nice man. I liked ©
him awfully,’’ said Ursula.

** Really! But weren’t you fearfully tempted? ”

** In the abstract but not in the econcrete,’’ said Ursula.
** When it comes to the point, one isn’t even tempted—oh,
if I were tempted, I’d marry like a shot. I’m only tempted
not to.’? The faces of both sisters suddenly lit up with
amusement.

** Isn’t it an amazing thing,”’ cried Gudrun, ‘* how strong
the temptation is, not to! ’? They both laughed, looking
at each other. In their hearts they were frightened.

There was a long pause, whilst Ursula stitched and
Gudrun went on with her sketch. The sisters were women,
Ursula twenty-six, and Gudrun twenty-five. But both had
the remote, virgin look of modern girls, sisters of Artemis
rather than of Hebe. Gudrun was very beautiful, passive,
soft-skinned, soft-limbed. She wore a dress of dark-blue
silky stuff, with ruches of blue and green linen lace in the
neck and sleeves; and she had emerald-green stockings.
Her look of confidence and diffidence ‘contrasted with
Ursula’s sensitive expectancy. The provincial people, —
intimidated by Gudrun’s perfect sang-froid and exclusive -
bareness of manner, said of her : ‘* She is a smart woman.”’
She had just come back from London, where she had spent
several years, working at an art-school, as a student, and
living a studio life.

** I was hoping now for a man to come along,’’ Gudrun
said, suddenly catching her underlip between her teeth, and
making a strange grimace, half sly smiling, half anguish.
Ursula was afraid.

** So you have come home, expecting him here? ” she
laughed.

** Oh my dear,’’ cried Gudrun, strident, ‘* I wouldn’t go
out of my way to look for him. But if there did happen to
come along a highly attractive individual of sufficient
means—well »? she tailed off ironically. Then she
Icoked searchingly at Ursula, as if to probe her. ‘* Don’t
you find yourself getting bored ?’’ she asked of her sister.
**Don’t you find, that things fail to materialize?
Nothing materializes! Everything withers in the
bud.”” ae

<¢ What withers in the bud? *? asked Ursula.

** Oh, everything—oneself—things in general,’’ There

‘
43

SISTERS 9

was a pause, whilst each sister vaguely considered her
fate.

** It does frighten one,”’ said Ursula, and again there was ©
a pause. ‘* But do you hope to get anywhere by just
marrying? ”’

** It seems to be the inevitable next step,’’ said Gudrun.
Ursula pondered this, with a little bitterness. She was a

_ class mistress herself, in Willey Green Grammar School, as

she had been for some years.

** T know,”’ she said, ‘* it seems like that when one thinks
in the abstract. But really imagine it: imagine any man
one knows, imagine him coming home to one every evening,
and saying ‘ Hello,’ and giving one a kiss— ”’

There was a blank pause.

** Yes,”’ said Gudrun, in a narrowed voice. ‘ It’s just
impossible. The man makes it impossible.”’

** Of course there’s children— ”’ said Ursula doubtfully.

Gudrun’s face hardened.

**Do you really want children, Ursula? ’? she asked
coldly. A dazzled, baffled look came on Ursula’s face.

** One feels it is still beyond one,”’ she said.

** Do you feel like that? ’’ asked Gudrun. ‘‘I get no
feeling whatever from the thought of bearing children.’’

Gudrun looked at Ursula with a mask-like, expressionless
face. Ursula knitted her brows.

** Perhaps it isn’t genuine,” she faltered. ‘* Perhaps one
doesn’t really want them, in one’s soul—only superficially.”’
A hardness came over Gudrun’s face. She did not want to
be too definite.

** When one thinks of other people’s children— ”’ said
Ursula.

Again Gudrun looked at her sister, almost hostile.

** Exactly,’’ she said, to close the conversation.

The two sisters worked on in silence, Ursula having

always that strange brightness of an essential flame that

is caught, meshed, contravened. She lived a good deal
by herself, to herself, working, passing on from day to day,
and always thinking, trying to lay hold on life, to grasp it
in her own understanding. Her active living was sus-
pended, but underneath, in the darkness, something was
coming to pass. If only she could break through the last
integuments! She seemed to try and put her hands out,
like an infant in the womb, and she could not, not yet.

10 WOMEN IN LOVE

Still she had a strange prescience, an intimation of some-
thing yet to come.

She laid down her work and looked at her sister. She
thought Gudrun so charming, so infinitely charming, in her
softness and her fine, exquisite richness of texture and _
delicacy of line. There was a certain playfulness about her
too, such a piquancy or ironic suggestion, such an
untouched reserve. Ursula admired her with all her
soul.

** Why did you come home, Prune? ” she asked.

Gudrun knew she was being admired. She sat back from
her drawing and looked at Ursula, from under her finely-
curved lashes. |

** ‘Why did I come back, Ursula? ’? she repeated. ‘I
have asked myself a thousand times.”’

** And don’t you know? ”?

** Yes, I think Ido. I think my coming back home was
just reculer pour mieux sauter.”’

__ And she looked with a long, slow look of knowledge at
Ursula. |

**T know! ” cried Ursula, looking slightly dazzled and
falsified, and as if she did not know. ‘* But where can one
jump toP ”

**Oh, it doesn’t matter,’? said Gudrun, somewhat
superbly. ‘* If one jumps over the edge, one is bound to
land somewhere.”’

** But isn’t it very risky? *? asked Ursula.

A slow mocking smile dawned on Gudrun’s face.

** Ah! ” she said laughing. ‘* What is it all but words! ”’
And so again she closed the conversation. But Ursula was
still brooding. ,

** And how do you find home, now you have come back
to it? *’ she asked.

Gudrun paused for some moments, coldly, before answer-
ing. Then, in a cold truthful voice, she said :

** I find myself completely out of it.’’

** And father? ”’

Gudrun looked at Ursula, almost with resentment, as if
brought to bay.

** T haven’t thought about him : I’ve refrained,’’ she said
coldly.

‘© Yes,’’ wavered Ursula; and the conversation was really
at an end, The sisters found themselves confronted by a

| See

“SISTERS ia

_ void, a terrifying chasm, as if they had looked over the
edge.

_ They worked on in silence for some time, Gudrun’s cheek
_was flushed with repressed emotion. She resented its hav-
ing been called into being.

re _ * Shall we go out and look at that wedding? ’’ she asked
_ at length, in a voice that was too casual.
y “© Yes! *? cried Ursula, too eagerly, throwing aside her ~
a sewing and leaping up, as if to escape something, thus be-
‘i traying the tension of the situation and causing a friction of
dislike to go over Gudrun’s nerves.
4 As she went upstairs, Ursula was aware of the house, of
her home round about her. And she loathed it, the sordid,
i too-familiar place! She was afraid at the depth of her feel-
‘ing against the home, the milieu, the whole atmosphere and
" condition of this obsolete life. Her feeling frightened her.
4 The two girls were soon walking swiftly down the main
_ road of Beldover, a wide street, part shops, part dwelling-
: houses, utterly formless and sordid, without poverty.
Gudrun, new from her life in Chelsea ‘anid Sussex, shrank
‘ cruelly from this amorphous ugliness of a small colliery
_ town in the Midlands. Yet forward she went, through the
_ whole sordid gamut of pettiness, the long amorphous, gritty
_ street. She was exposed to every stare, she passed on
i a stretch of torment. It was strange that she

_ should have chosen to come back and test the full effect of
_ this shapeless, barren ugliness upon herself. Why had she
wanted to submit herself to it, did she still want to submit
_ herself to it, the insufferable torture of these ugly, meaning-
_ less people, ‘this defaced countryside? She felt like a beetle
" toiling in the dust. She was filled with repulsion.

_ They turned off the main road, past a black patch of
_ common-garden, where sooty cabbage stumps stood shame-
‘less. No one thought to be ashamed. No one was
_ ashamed of it all.

_ It is like a country in an underworld,’ said Gudron.
y “ The colliers bring it above-ground with them, shovel it
_ up. Ursula, it’s marvellous, it’s really marvellous—it’s
' really wonderful, another world. The people are all ghouls,
_ and everything is ghostly. Everything is a ghoulish replica
_ of the real world, a replica, a ghoul, all soiled, everything
sordid. It’s like being mad, Ursula.”’

_ The sisters were crossing a black path through a dark,

12 | WOMEN IN LOVE

soiled field. On the left was a large landscape, a valley
with collieries, and opposite hills with cornfields and woods,
all blackened with distance, as if seen through a veil of
crape. White and black smoke rose up in steady columns, —
magic within the dark air. Near at hand came the long
rows of dwellings, approaching curved up the hill-slope, in
straight lines along the brow of the hill. They were of
darkened red brick, brittle, with dark slate roofs. The path
on which the sisters walked was black, trodden-in by the
feet of the recurrent colliers, and bounded from the field by
iron fences; the stile that led again into the road was rubbed
shiny by the moleskins of the passing miners. Now the two
girls were going between some rows of dwellings, of the
poorer sort. Women, their arms folded over their coarse
aprons, standing gossiping at the end of their block, stared
after the Brangwen sisters with that long, unwearying stare
of aborigines ; children called out names.

Gudrun went on her way half dazed. If this were human —
life, if these were human beings, living in a complete world,
then what was her own world, outside? She was aware of
her grass-green stockings, ‘her large grass-green velour hat,
her full soft coat, of a strong blue colour. And she felt as
if she were treading in the air, quite unstable, her heart was
contracted, as if at any minute she might be precipitated to
the ground. She was afraid. .

She clung to Ursula, who, through long usage was inured —
to this violation of a dark, uncreated, hostile world. But —
all the time her heart was crying, as if in the midst of some ©
ordeal : ** I want to go back, I want to go away, I want not
to know it, not to know that this exists.” Yet she must
go forward.

Ursula could feel her suffering.

** You hate this, don’t you ?’’ she asked.

‘‘ Tt bewilders me,’’ stammered Gudrun.

*¢ You won’t stay long,’’ replied Ursula.

And Gudrun went along, grasping at release.

They drew away from the colliery region, over the curve
of the hill, into the purer country of the other side, towards
Willey Green. Still the faint glamour of blackness persisted —
over the fields and the wooded hills, and seemed darkly to
gleam in the air. It was a spring day, chill, with snatches
of sunshine. Yellow celandines showed out from the hedge-
bottoms, and in the cottage gardens of Willey Green,

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SISTERS 13

_eurrant-bushes were breaking into leaf, and little flowers
_ were coming white on the grey alyssum that hung over the
_ stone walls.
_ Turning, they passed down the high-road, that went
_ between high banks towards the church. There, in the
_ lowest bend of the road, low under the trees, stood a little
_ group of expectant people, waiting to see the wedding. The
_ daughter of the chief mine-owner of the district, Thomas
_ Crich, was getting married to a naval officer.
- Tet us go back,’? said Gudrun, swerving away.
_ * There are all those people.”’
\ _ And she hung wavering in the road.
_ ** Never mind them,’’ said Ursula, | ** they’re all right.
i - They all know me, they don’t matter.’
: ** But must we go through them? ”’ ‘ea Gudrun.

** They’re quite all right, really,’’ said Ursula, going for-
_ ward. And together the two sisters approached the group
q of uneasy, watchful common people. They were chiefly
_ women, colliers’ wives of the more shiftless sort. They had
_ watchful, underworld faces.
_ The two sisters held themselves tense, and went straight
_ towards the gate. The women made way for them, but
’ barely sufficient, as if grudging to yield ground. The sisters
1 passed in silence through the stone gateway and up the
steps, on the red carpet, a policeman estimating their
‘progress.
j ** What price the stockings! ”’ said a voice at the back

i

'of Gudrun. A sudden fierce anger swept over the girl,

_ violent and murderous. She would have liked them all
\ annihilated, cleared away, so that the world was left clear
_ for her. How she hated walking up the churchyard path,
a along the red carpet, continuing in motion, in their
sight.
4q ** I won’t go into the church,”’ she said suddenly, with
ech final decision that Ursula immediately halted, turned
_ round, and branched off up a small side path which led to
_ the little private gate of the Grammar School, whose
_ grounds adjoined those of the church.
Just inside the gate of the schoo] shrubbery, outside the
4 churchyard, Ursula sat down for a moment on the low stone
_ wall under the laurel bushes, to rest. Behind her, the large
j red building of the school rose up peacefully, the windows
all open for the holiday. Over the shrubs, before her, were

14 WOMEN IN LOVE

the pale roofs and tower of the old church. ba: sisters were
hidden by the foliage.

Gudrun sat down in silence. Her mouth was shut close,
her face averted. She was regretting bitterly that she had
ever come back. Ursula looked at her, and thought how
amazingly beautiful she was, flushed with discomfiture.
But she caused a constraint over Ursula’s nature, a certain
weariness. Ursula wished to be alone, freed from the
tightness, the enclosure of Gudrun’s presence.

** Are we going to stay here? *? asked Gudrun.

** I was only resting a minute,”’ said Ursula, getting up
as if rebuked. ‘* We will stand in the corner by the fives-
court, we shall see everything from there.”’

For the moment, the sunshine fell brightly into the
churchyard, there was a vague scent of sap and of spring,
perhaps of violets from off the graves. Some white daisies
were out, bright as angels. In the air, the unfolding leaves
of a copper-beech were blood-red.

Punctually at eleven o’clock, the carriages began to
arrive. There was a stir in the crowd at the gate, a con-
centration as a carriage drove up, wedding guests were
mounting up the steps and passing along the red carpet to
the church. They were all gay and excited because the sun
was shining.

Gudrun watched them closely, with objective curiosity. .
She saw each one as a complete figure, like a character in a
book, or a subject in a picture, or a marionette in a theatre,
a finished creation. She loved to recognize their various
characteristics, to place them in their true light, give them
their own surroundings, settle them for ever as they passed
before her along the path to the church. She knew them,
they were finished, sealed and stamped and finished with,
for her. There was none that had anything unknown, un-
resolved, until the Criches themselves began to appear.
Then her interest was piqued. Here was something not
quite so preconcluded.

There came the mother, Mrs Crich, with he: eldest son
Gerald. She was a queer unkempt figure, in spite of the
attempts that had obviously been made to bring her into
line for the day. Her face was pale, yellowish, with a
clear, transparent skin, she leaned forward rather, her
features were strongly marked, handsome, with a tense, un-
seeing, predative look. Her colourless hair was untidy,

Mea hHon TAN TIER os OPER sae, eke,

SISTERS 15

_ wisps floating down on to her sac coat of dark blue silk,
from under her blue silk hat. She looked like a woman
with a monomania, furtive almost, but heavily proud.

Her son was of a fair, sun-tanned type, rather. above
middle height, well-made, and almost exaggeratedly well-
dressed. But about him also was the strange, guarded

‘look, the unconscious glisten, as if he did not belong to the

- same creation as the people about him. Gudrun lighted on

kim at once. There was something northern about him

_ that magnetised her. In his clear northern flesh and his

- fair hair was a glisten like sunshine refracted through

_ erystals of ice. And he looked so new, unbroached, pure as

an arctic thing. Perhaps he was thirty years old, perhaps .

_ more. His gleaming beauty, maleness, like a young, good-

_ humoured, smiling wolf, did not blind her to the significant,

sinister stillness in his bearing, the lurking danger of his un-

_ subdued temper. ‘‘ His totem is the wolf,’? she repeated to

_ herself. ‘* His mother is an old, unbroken wolf.’? And

_ then she experienced a keen paroxysm, a transport, as if

_ she had made some incredible discovery, known to nobody

_ else on earth. A strange transport took possession of her,

all her veins were in a paroxysm of violent sensation.

_ ** Good God ! ”? she exclaimed to herself, ‘* what is this? ”

E And then, a moment after, she was saying assuredly, ‘* I

shall know more of that man.’* She was tortured with

_ desire to see him again, a nostalgia, a necessity to see him
_ again, to make sure it was not all a mistake, that she was

not deluding herself, that she really felt this strange and

_ cverwhelming sensation on his account, this knowledge of

him in her essence, this powerful apprehension of him.

_ * Am I really singled out for him in some way, is there

' really some pale gold, arctic light that envelopes only us

_ two? ”’ she asked herself. And she could not believe it, she

_ remained in a muse, scarcely conscious of what was going

on around. |

_ The bridesmaids were here, and yet the bridegroom had

- notcome. Ursula wondered if something was amiss, and if

_ the wedding would yet all go wrong. She felt troubled, as

_ if it rested upon her. The chief bridesmaids had arrived.

_ Ursula watched them come up the steps. One of them she

_ knew, a tall, slow, reluctant woman with a weight of fair

- hair and a pale, long face. This was Hermione Roddice, a

friend of the Criches. Now she came along, with her head

vi bs
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16 WOMEN IN LOVE

held up, balancing an enormous flat hat of pale yellow
velvet, on which were streaks of ostrich feathers, natural
and grey. She drifted forward as if scarcely conscious, her
long blanched face lifted up, not to see the world. She was
rich. She wore a dress of silky, frail velvet, of pale yellow
colour, and she carried a lot of small rose-coloured
cyclamens. Her shoes and stockings were of brownish
grey, like the feathers on her hat, her hair was heavy, she
drifted along with a peculiar fixity of the hips, a strange
unwilling motion. She was impressive, in her lovely pale-
yellow and brownish-rose, yet macabre, something repul-
sive. People were silent when she passed, impressed,
roused, wanting to jeer, yet for some reason silenced. Her
long, pale face, that she carried lifted up, somewhat in the
Rossetti fashion, seemed almost drugged, as if a strange
mass of thoughts coiled in the darkness within her, and she
was never allowed to escape.

Ursula watched her with fascination. She knew her a
little. She was the most remarkable woman in the Mid-
lands. Her father was a Derbyshire Baronet of the old
school, she was a woman of the new school, full of intellec-
tuality, and heavy, nerve-worn with consciousness. She
was passionately interested in reform, her soul was given up
to the public cause. But she was a man’s woman, it was
the manly world that held her.

She had various intimacies of mind and soul with various
men of capacity. Ursula knew, among these men, only
Rupert Birkin, who was one of the school-inspectors of the
county. But Gudrun had met others, in London. Moy-
ing with her artist friends in different kinds of society,
Gudrun had already come to know a good many people of
repute and standing. She had met Hermione twice, but
they did not take to each other. It would be queer to meet
again down here in the Midlands, where their social stand-
ing was so diverse, after they had known each other on
terms of equality in the houses of sundry acquaintances
in town. For Gudrun had been a social suceess, and had
her friends among the slack aristocracy that keeps touch
with the arts. ah

Hermione knew herself to be well-dressed ; she knew her-
self to be the social equal, if not far the superior, of anyone
she was likely to meet in Willey Green. She knew she was
accepted in the world of culture and of intellect. She was a

SISTERS 17

Kulturtréger, a medium for the culture of ideas. With all
that was highest, whether in society or in thought or in

_ public action, or even in art, she was at one, she moved
among the foremost, at home with them. No one could

put her down, no one could make mock of her, because she
stood among the first, and those that were against her were
below her, either in rank, or in wealth, or in high associa-
tion of thought and progress and understanding. So, she
was invulnerable. All her life, she had sought to make
herself invulnerable, unassailable, beyond reach of the

- world’s judgment.

And yet her soul was tortured, exposed. Even walking
up the path to the church, confident as she was that in
every respect she stood beyond all vulgar judgment, know-

-ing perfectly that her appearance was complete and per-

fect, according to the first standards, yet she suffered a
torture, under her confidence and her pride, feeling herself
exposed to wounds and to mockery and to despite.. She
always felt vulnerable, vulnerable, there was always a secret

- chink in her armour. She did not know herself what it

was. It was a lack of robust self, she had no natural suffi-
ciency, there was a terrible void, a lack, a deficiency of
being within her.

And she wanted someone to close up this deficiency, to

_ close it up for ever. She craved for Rupert Birkin. When

he was there, she felt complete, she was sufficient, whole.

_ For the rest of time she was established on the sand, built
- over a chasm, and, in spite of all her vanity and securities,

any common maid-servant of positive, robust temper could
flmg her down this bottomless pit of insufficiency, by the
slightest movement of jeering or contempt. And all the
while the pensive, tortured woman piled up her own de-
fences of zsthetic knowledge, and culture, and world-

_ visions, and disinterestedness. Yet she could never stop

‘bes,

‘ up the terrible gap of insufficiency.

If only Birkin would form a close and abiding connection

_ with her, she would be safe during this fretful voyage of life.
_ He could make her sound and triumphant, triumphant over
_ the very angels of heaven. If only he would do it! But
_ she was tortured with fear, with misgiving. She made
herself beautiful, she strove so hard to come to that degree
- of beauty and advantage, when he should be convinced.

But always there was a deficiency.
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18 WOMEN IN LOVE

He was perverse too. He fought her off, he always

fought her off. The more she strove to bring him to her,
the more he battled her back. And they had been lovers
now, for years. Oh, it was so wearying, so aching; she was
so tired. But still she believed in herself. She knew he
was trying to leave her. She knew he was trying to break
away from her finally, to be free. But still she believed in

her strength to keep him, she believed in her own higher

knowledge. His own knowledge was high, she was the cen-
tral touchstone of truth. She only needed his conjunction
with her.

And this, this conjunction with her, which was his highest
fulfilment also, with the perverseness of a wilful child he
wanted to deny. \ With the wilfulness of an obstinate child,
he wanted to break the holy connection that was between
them.

He would be at this wedding; he was to be groom’s man.
He would be in the church, waiting. He would, know when
she came. She shuddered with nervous apprehension and
desire as she went through the church-door. He would be
there, surely he would see how beautiful her dress was,
surely he would see how she had made herself beautiful for
him. He would understand, he would be able to see how
she was made for him, the first, how she was, for him, the
highest. Surely at last he would be able to accept his high-
est fate, he would not deny her.

In a little convulsion of too-tired yearning, she entered
the church and looked slowly along her cheeks for him, her
slender body convulsed with agitation. As best man, he
would be standing beside the altar. She looked slowly,
deferring in her certainty.

And then, he was not there. A terrible storm came over
her, as if she were drowning. She was possessed by a
devastating hopelessness. And she approached mechanic-
‘ally to the altar. Never had she known such a pang of
utter and final hopelessness. It was beyond death, so
utterly null, desert.

The bridegroom and the groom’s man had not yet come.
There was a growing consternation outside. Ursula felt
almost responsible. She could not bear it that the bride
should arrive, and no groom. The wedding must not be a

fiasco, it must not. ! ir
But here was the bride’s carriage, adorned with ribbons

SISTERS | 19

and cockades. Gaily the grey horses curvetted to their
_ destination at the church-gate, a laughter in the whole
movement. Here was the quick of all laughter and
pleasure. The door of the carriage was thrown open, to let
_ out the very blossom of the day. The people on the road-
_ way murmured faintly with the discontented murmuring of
a crowd.
_ The father stepped out first into the air of the morning,
like a shadow. He was a tall, thin, careworn man, with a
_ thin black beard that was touched with grey. He waited
_ at the door of the carriage patiently, self-obliterated.
__. In the opening of the doorway was a shower of fine foliage
_ and flowers, a whiteness of satin and lace, and a sound of
_ @ gay voice saying :
_ * How do I get out? ”
_ A ripple of satisfaction ran through the expectant people.
_ They pressed near to receive her, looking with zest at the
_ stooping blond head with its flower buds, and at the deli-
_ cate, white, tentative foot that was reaching down to the
_ step of the carriage. There was a sudden foaming rush,
and the bride like a sudden surf-rush, floating all white
_ beside her father in the morning shadow of trees, her veil
_ fiowing with laughter.
* That’s done it! *’ she said.
_ She put her hand on the arm of her care-worn, sallow
_ father, and frothing her light draperies, proceeded over the
_ eternal red carpet. Her father, mute and yellowish, his
_ black beard making him look more careworn, mounted the
"steps stiffiy, as if his spirit were absent; but the laughing
mist of the bride went along with him undiminished.
a And no bridegroom had ‘arrived! It was intolerable for
Ht her. Ursula, her heart strained with anxiety, was watch-
ing the hill beyond ; the white, descending road, that should
' give sight of him. There was a carriage. It was running.
‘It had just come into sight. Yes, it was he. Ursula
turned towards the bride and the people, and, from her
_ place of Rantage, gave an inarticulate cry. She wanted to

Oe te SP er

a esire and her wincing confusion.

_ The carriage rattled down the hill, and drew near.
Ps here was a shout from the people. The bride, who had
_ just reached the top of the steps, turned round gaily to see

20 WOMEN IN LOVE

what was the commotion. She saw a cenfusion among the
people, a cab pulling up, and her lover dropping out of the
carriage, and dodging among the horses and into the crowd.

** Tibs ! Tibs! ”? she cried in her sudden, mocking excite-
ment, standing high on the path in the sunlight and waving
her bouquet. He, dodging with his hat in his hand, had not
heard.

‘** Tibs ! ”? she cried again, looking down to him.

He glanced up, unaware, and saw the bride and her
father standing on the path above him. A queer, startled
look went over his face. He hesitated for a moment.
Then he gathered himself together for a leap, to overtake
her.

** Ah-h-h! ’? came her strange, intaken cry, as, on the
reflex, she started, turned and fled, scudding with an un-
thinkable swift beating of her white feet and fraying of her
white garments, towards the church. Like a hound the
young man was after her, leaping the steps and swinging
past her father, his supple haunches working like those of a
hound that bears down on the quarry.

** Ay, after her! *’ cried the vulgar women below, carried
suddenly into the sport.

She, her flowers shaken from her like froth, was steady-
ing herself to turn the angle of the church. She glanced
behind, and with a wild cry of laughter and challenge,
veered, poised, and was gone beyond the grey stone
buttress. In another instant the bridegroom, bent for-
ward as he ran, had caught the angle of the silent stone
with his hand, and had swung himself out of sight, his
supple, strong loins vanishing in pursuit. |

Instantly cries and exclamations of excitement burst
from the crowd at the gate. And then Ursula noticed again
the dark, rather stooping figure of Mr Crich, waiting sus-
pended on the path, watching with expressionless face the
flight to the church. It was over, and he turned round to
look behind him, at the figure of Rupert Birkin, who at
once came forward and joined him.

‘* We’ll bring up the rear,’’ said Birkin, a faint smile on
his face.

** Ay! *’ replied the father laconically. And the two men
turned together up the path.

Birkin was as thin as Mr Crich, pale and ill-looking. His
figure was narrow but nicely made. He went with a slight

“ a

SISTERS 21

trail of one foot, which came only from self-consciousness.
Although he was dressed correctly for his part, yet there was
an innate incongruity which caused a slight ridiculousness in
his appearance. His nature was clever and separate, he did
not fit at al! in the conventional occasion. Yet he
subordinated himself to the common idea, travestied
himself.

He affected to be quite ordinary, perfectly and marvel-

_ lously commonplace. And he did it so well, taking the tone

of his surroundings, adjusting himself quickly to his inter-
locutor and his circumstance, that he achieved a verisimili-
tude of ordinary commonplaceness that usually propitiated
his onlookers for the moment, disarmed them from attack-

ing his singleness.

Now he spoke quite easily and pleasantly to Mr Crich, as

; they walked along the path; he played with situations like

@ man on a tight-rope : but always on a tight-rope, pretend-

ing nothing but ease.
‘I’m sorry we are so late,’ he was saying. ‘* We

- eouldn’t find a button-hook, so it took us a long time to

button our boots. But you were to the moment.”’
** We are usually to time,” said Mr Crich.
** And I’m always late,’’ said Birkin. ‘* But to-day I

_was really punctual, only accidently not so. I’m sorry.”

The two men were gone, there was nothing more to see, —

_ for the time. Ursula was left thinking about Birkin. He
_ piqued her, attracted her, and annoyed her.

She wanted to know him more. She had spoken with

~ him once or twice, but only in his official capacity as inspec-

tor. She thought he seemed to acknowledge some kinship

_ between her and him, a natural, tacit understanding, a using
_ of the same language. But there had been no time for the

understanding to develop. And something kept her from

_ him, as well as attracted her to him. There was a certain
hostility, a hidden ultimate reserve in him, cold and i inacces-

sible.
Yet she wanted to know him.
** What do you think of Rupert Birkin? ”’ she asked, a

+ little reluctantly, of Gudrun. She did not want to discuss

is him.

** What do I think of Rupert Birkin? ’’ repeated Gudrun.

TJ think he’s attractive—decidedly attractive. What I

can’t stand about him is his way with other people—his way

~

SSE ON OAT Pe a
“ ; aa Se ¥

22 WOMEN IN ee

of treating any little fool as if she were his greatest con-
sideration. One feels so awfully sold, oneself.’’

i , Why does.he do it? * said Ursula.

* Because he has no real critical faculty—of people, at all
1 Anes said Gudrun. ‘* I tell you, he treats any little fool
as he treats me or you—and it’s such an insult.”’

** Oh, it is,’’? said Ursula. ‘* One must discriminate.’’

** One must discriminate,’’ repeated Gudrun. ‘* But he’s —
a wonderful chap, in other respects—a marvellous person-
ality. But you can’t trust him.’’

** Yes,’’ said Ursula vaguely. She was always forced to
assent to Gudrun’s pronouncements, even when she was not
in accord altogether.

The sisters sat silent, waiting for the wedding party to
come out. Gudrun was impatient of talk. She wanted to
think about Gerald Crich. She wanted to see if the strong
feeling she had got from him was real. She wanted to have
herself ready.

Inside the church, the wedding was going on. Hermione
Roddice was thinking only of Birkin. He stood near her.
She seemed to gravitate physically towards him. She
wanted to stand touching him. She could hardly be sure
he was near her, if she did not touch him. Yet she stood
subjected through the wedding service.

She had suffered so bitterly when he did not come, that
still she was dazed. Still she was gnawed as by a
neuralgia, tormented by his potential absence from her.
She had awaited him in a faint delirium of nervous torture.
As she stood bearing herself pensively, the rapt look on her
face, that seemed spiritual, like the angels, but which came
from torture, gave her a certain poignancy that tore his
heart with pity. He saw her bowed head, her rapt face, the
face of an almost demoniacal ecstatic. Feeling him look-
ing, she lifted her face and sought his eyes, her own beauti-
ful grey eyes flaring him a great signal. But he avoided her
look, she sank her head in torment and shame, the gnawing
at her heart going on. And he too was tortured with
shame, and ultimate dislike, and with acute pity for her,
because he did not want to meet her eyes, he did not want
to receive her flare of recognition. :

The bride and bridegroom were married, the party went
into the vestry. Hermione crowded involuntarily up
against Birkin, to touch him. And he endured it.

SISTERS _ | 23

Outside, Gudrun and Ursula listened for their father’s
playing on the organ. He would enjoy playing a wedding

march. Now the married pair were coming! The bells

ee en Pee EN
: Seid eae

9

eae celal

ai

were ringing, making the air shake. Ursula wondered if
the trees and the flowers could feel the vibration, and what
they thought of it, this strange motion in the air. The
bride was quite demure on the arm of the bridegroom, who
stared up into the sky before him, shutting and opening his

eyes unconsciously, as if he were neither here nor there.

He looked rather comical, blinking and trying to be in the
scene, when emotionally he was violated by his exposure
to acrowd. He looked a typical naval officer, manly, and
up to his duty.

‘Birkin came with Hermione. She had a rapt, triumphant
look, like the fallen angels restored, yet still subtly
demoniacal, now she held Birkin by the arm. And he was .
expressionless, neutralised, possessed by her as if it were

his fate, without question.

Gerald Crich came, fair, goodlooking, healthy, with a
great reserve of energy. He was erect and complete, there

- was a strange stealth glistening through his amiable, almost

happy appearance. Gudrun rose sharply and went away.
She could not bear it. She wanted to be alone, to know
this strange, sharp inoculation that had changed the whole
temper of her blood.

et ar ee

ie
cine

J ae Co
Pe ata! V2

CHAP: Il. SHORTLANDS

Tue Brangwens went home to Beldover, the wedding-party
gathered at Shortlands, the Criches’ home. It was a long,
low old house, a sort of manor farm, that spread along the
top of a slope just beyond the narrow little lake of Willey
Water. Shortlands looked across a sloping meadow that —
might be a park, because of the large, solitary trees that
stood here and there, across the water of the narrow lake,
at the wooded hill that successfully hid the colliery valley
beyond, but did not quite hide the rising smoke. Never-
theless, the scene was rural and picturesque, very peaceful, —
and the house had a charm of its own.

It was crowded now with the family and the wedding
guests. The father, who was not well, withdrew to rest.
Gerald was host. He stood in the homely entrance hall,
friendly and easy, attending to the men. He seemed to take
pleasure in his social functions, he smiled, and was abun-
dant in hospitality.

The women wandered about in a little confusion, chased
hither and thither by the three married daughters of the
house. All the while there could be heard the characteris-
tic, imperious voice of one Crich woman or another calling
** Helen, come here a minute,’’ ‘* Marjory, I want you—
here.”? ‘* Oh, I say, Mrs Witham—.’’ There was a great
rustling of skirts, swift glimpses of smartly-dressed women,
a child danced through the hall and back again, a maid-
servant came and went hurriedly.

Meanwhile the men stood in calm little groups, chatting,
smoking, pretending to pay no heed to the rustling anima-
tion of the women’s world. But they could not really talk,
because of the glassy ravel of women’s excited, cold laughter
and running voices. They waited, uneasy, suspended,
rather bored. But Gerald remained as if genial and happy,
unaware that he was waiting or unoccupied, knowing him- |
- self the very pivot of the occasion.

Suddenly Mrs Crich came noiselessly into the room, peer- —
ing about with her strong, clear face. She was still wearing
her hat, and her sac coat of blue silk.

‘© What is it, mother? *’ said Gerald.

24

Sa © gl Cle ae Sey yea fat A OPS tae
ice AAS Aa Arias yy ae Tn ! od gor
ny: tr my wHias % : vit . J
a 2 y

SHORTLANDS 25

** Nothing, nothing! ’’ she answered vaguely. And she
went straight towards Birkin, who was talking to a Crich
brother-in-law.

__. ** How do you do, Mr Birkin,”’ she said, in her low voice,
that seemed to take no count of her guests. She held out
her hand to him.

*€ Oh Mrs Crich,’’ replied Birkin, in his readily-changing
voice, ** I couldn’t come to you before.”’

‘© T don’t know half the people here,’ she said, in her
low voice. , Her son-in-law moved uneasily away. |

*¢ And you don’t like strangers? ”? laughed Birkin. ‘‘ I
myself can never see why one should take account of people,

_ just because they happen to be in the room with one : why
should I know they are there? ”’

_ ** Why indeed, why indeed! ’”’ said Mrs Crich, in her
low, tense voice. ‘°*‘ Except that they are there. I don’t
know people whom I find in the house. The children intro-
duce them to me—‘ Mother, this is Mr So-and-so.’ I am no
further. What has Mr So-and-so to do with his own name?
—and what have I to do with either him or his name? ”’

She looked up at Birkin. She startled him. He was
flattered too that she came to talk to him, for she took
hardly any notice of anybody. He looked down at her
tense clear face, with its heavy features, but he was afraid
to look into her heavy-seeing blue eyes. He noticed instead
how her hair looped in slack, slovenly strands over her
rather beautiful ears, which were not quite clean. Neither
was her neck perfectly clean. Even in that he seemed to
belong to her, rather than to the rest of the company;
though, he thought to himself, he was always well washed,

_ at any rate at the neck and ears.

He smiled faintly, thinking these things. Yet he was

_ tense, feeling that he and the elderly, estranged woman

_ were conferring together like traitors, like enemies within

_ the camp of the other people. He resembled a deer, that
throws one ear back upon the trail behind, and one ear
forward, to know what is ahead.

** People don’t really matter,’’ he said, rather unwilling

_ to continue. ;

_ The mother looked up at him with sudden, dark interro-
gation, as if doubting his sincerity.

** How do you mean, matter? ” she asked sharply.

** Not many people are anything at all,’’ he answered,

SO Oa a as SD ay ee ed

26 WOMEN IN LOVE
forced to go deeper than he wanted to. ‘‘ They jingle and ~
giggle. It would be much better if they were just wi |
cut. Essentially, they don’t exist, they aren’t there.”

She watched him steadily while he spoke.

** But we don’t imagine them,”’ she said sharply.

** There’s nothing to imagine, that’s why they don’t
exist.”’

** Well,”’ she said, ‘* I would hardly go as far as that.
There they are, whether they exist or no. It doesn’t rest
with me to decide on their existence. I only know that I
can’t be expected to take count of them all. You can’t —
expect me to know them, just because they happen to be
there. As far as I go they might as well not be there.” _

** Exactly,”’ he replied.

** Mightn’t they? ” she asked again.

** Just as well,’? he repeated. And there was a little
pause.

** Except that they are there, and that’s a nuisance,”’ she
said. ‘* There are my sons-in-law,’’ she went on, in a sort
of monologue. ** Now Laura’s got married, there’s
another. And I really don’t know John from James yet. —
They come up to me and call me mother. I know what
they will say—‘* How are you, mother?’ I ought to say,
‘I am not your mother, in any sense.’ But what is the
use? There they are. I have had children of my own. I
suppose I know them from another woman’s children.”’

** One would suppose so,”’ he said.

She looked ‘at him, somewhat surprised, forgetting per- —
haps that she was talking to him. And she lost her thread.

She looked round the room, vaguely. Birkin could not
guess what she was looking for, nor what she was thinking. —
Evidently she noticed her sons.

** Are my children all there? *? she asked him abruptly.

He laughed, startled, afraid perhaps.

** IT scarcely know them, except Gerald,’’ he replied.

** Gerald! *? she exclarmed. ‘* He’s the most wanting of
them all. You’d never think it, to look at him now, would

ou? ”?

** No,” said Birkin.

The mpther looked across at her eldest son, stasen at him
heavily for some time.

** Ay,”? she said, in an incomprehensible monosyllable,
that sounded profoundly cynical. Birkin felt afraid, as if

saa SHORTLANDS 27

he dared not realise. And Mrs Crich moved away, forget-

ting him. But she returned on her traces.

** IT should like him to have a friend,’”’ she said. ‘* He
has never had a friend.”’

Birkin looked down into her eyes, which were blue, and
watching heavily. He could not understand them. ‘* Am
I my brother’s keeper? ”? he said to himself, almost flip-
pantly.

Then he remembered, with a slight shock, that that was

_ Cain’s cry. And Gerald was Cain, if anybody. Not that

he was Cain, either, although he had slain his brother.

There was such a thing as pure accident, and the conse-

quences did not attach to one, even though one had killed
one’s brother in such wise. Gerald as a boy had accident-

- ally killed his brother. What then? Why seek to draw a

atm, 7 es

brand and a curse across the life that had caused the acci-
dent? A man can live by accident, and die by accident.

Or can he not? Is every man’s life subject to pure acci-

dent, is it only the race, the genus, the species, that has a
universal reference? Or is this not true, is there no such

thing as pure accident? Has everything that happens a —

universal significance? Has it? Birkin, pondering as he
stood there, had forgotten Mrs Crich, as she had forgotten
him.

He did not believe that there was any such thing as acci-
dent. It all hung together, in the deepest sense.

Just as he had decided this, one of the Crich daughters
came up, saying :

** Won’t you come and take your hat off, mother dear?
We shall be sitting down to eat in a minute, and it’s a
formal occasion, darling, isn’t it? ’? She drew her arm

through her mother’s, and they went away. Birkin imme-

diately went to talk to the nearest man.
The gong sounded for the luncheon. The men looked up,

but no move was made to the dining-room. The women of

the house seemed not to feel that the sound had meaning
for them. Five minutes passed by. The elderly man-
servant, Crowther, appeared in the doorway exasperatedly.
He looked with appeal at Gerald. The latter took up a
large, curved conch shell, that lay on a shelf, and without

_ reference to anybody, blew a shattering blast. It was a

strange rousing noise, that made the heart beat. The sum-
mons was almost magical. Everybody came running, as if

28 WOMEN IN LOVE. o: am

at a signal. And then the crowd in one impulse moved to
the dining-room.

Gerald waited a moment, for his sister to play hostess.
He knew his mother would pay no attention to her duties.
But his sister merely crowded to her seat. Therefore the
young man, slightly too dictatorial, directed the guests to
their places.

There was a moment’s lull, as everybody looked at the
hors d’oeuvres that were being handed round. And out of
this lull, a girl of thirteen or fourteen, with her long hair
down her back, said in a calm, self-possessed voice :

** Gerald, you forget father, when you make that un-
earthly noise.””

**Do I? ” he answered. And then, to the company,
** Father is lying down, he is not quite well.’’

** How is he, really ?’? called one of the married daugh-
ters, peeping round the immense wedding cake that towered
up in the middle of the table shedding its artificial flowers.

** He has no pain, but he feels tired,’’ replied Winifred,
the girl with the hair down her back.

The wine was filled, and everybody was talking boister-
ously. At the far end of the table sat the mother, with her
- loosely-looped hair. She had Birkin for a neighbour.
Sometimes she glanced fiercely down the rows of faces, bend-
ing forwards and staring unceremoniously. And she would
say in a low voice to Birkin :

** Who is that young man ?”’

** T don’t know,’’ Birkin answered discreetly.

** Have I seen him before ?’’ she asked.

**T don’t think so. J haven’t,’’ he replied. And she was
satisfied. Her eyes closed wearily, a peace came over her
face, she looked like a queen in repose. Then she started,
a little social smile came on her face, for a moment she
looked the pleasant hostess. For a moment she bent
graciously, as if everyone were welcome and delightful.
And then immediately the shadow came back, a sullen, eagle
look was on her face, she glanced from under her brows like
a sinister creature at bay, hating them all.

** Mother,’’ called Diana, a handsome girl a little older
than Winifred, ‘* I may have wine, mayn’t I?’

** Yes, you may have wine,”’ replied the mother auto-
matically, for she was perfectly indifferent to the question.

And Diana beckoned to the footman to fill her glass.

SHORTLANDS 29

_ ** Gerald shouldn’t forbid me,’’ she said calmly, to the
company at large.

** All right, Di,’’ said her brother amiably. And she
glanced challenge at him as she drank from her glass.

There was a strange freedom, that almost amounted to
anarchy, in the house. It was rather a resistance to
authority, than liberty. Gerald had some command, by
mere force of personality, not because of any granted
position. There was a quality in his voice, amiable but
dominant, that cowed the others, who were all younger
than he.

Hermione was having a discussion with the bridegroom
_ about nationality.
_ ** No,’’ she said, *‘ I think that the appeal to patriotism
is a mistake. It is like one house of business rivalling
another house of business.”’
_ ** Well you can hardly say that, can you?’ exclaimed

Gerald, who had a real passion for discussion. ‘* You
_ couldn’t call a race a business concern, could you ?—and
nationality roughly corresponds to race, I think. I think
it is meant to.”’

There was a moment’s pause. Gerald and Hermione were
always strangely but politely and evenly inimical.

** Do you think race corresponds with nationality ?’’? she
asked musingly, with expressionless indecision.

Birkin knew she was waiting for him to participate. And
dutifully he spoke up.

** 1 think Gerald is right—race is the essential element in
_ nationality, in Europe at least,”’ he said.
Again Hermione paused, as if to allow this statement to

_ cool. Then she said with strange assumption of authority :

_ ** Yes, but even so, is the patriotic appeal an appeal to
_ the racial instinct? Is it not rather an appeal to the pro-
_ prietory instinct, the commercial instinct? And isn’t this
_ what we mean by nationality ?”’

_ ** Probably,’’ said Birkin, who felt that such a discussion
_ was out of place and out of time.

But Gerald was now on the scent of argument.

) ** A race may have its commercial aspect,’’ he said. ‘* In
_ fact it must. It is like a family. You must make provi-
_ sion. And to make provision you have got to strive against
other families, other nations. I don’t see why you
_ shouldn’t.”’

86000 WOMEN IN LOVE

Again Hermione made a pause, domineering and cold,
before she replied : ** Yes, I think it is always wrong to —
provoke a spirit of rivalry. It makes bad blood. And bad
blood accumulates.”’

** But you can’t do away with the spirit of emulation
altogether ?’? said Gerald. ‘* It is one of the necessary in-
centives to production and improvement.”’

** Yes,’’ came Hermione’s sauntering response. ‘I
think you can do away with it.” .

** I must say,” said Birkin, ‘‘ I detest the spirit of emu- _
lation.”’ Hermione was biting a piece of bread, pulling it
from between her teeth with her fingers, in a slow, slightly
derisive movement. She turned to Birkin.

** You do hate it, yes,’’ she said, intimate and gratified.

** Detest it,’’ he repeated.

** Yes,’’ she murmured, assured and satisfied.

** But,”’ Gerald insisted, ‘* you don’t allow one man to
take away his neighbour’s living, so why should you allow
one nation to take away the living from another nation ?”’

There was a long slow murmur from Hermione before she
broke into speech, saying with a laconic indifference :

** Tt is not always a question of possessions, is it? It is
not all a question of goods ?’’

Gerald was nettled by this implication of vulgar
materialism. "

** Yes, more or less,’’ he retorted. ‘‘ If I go and take a
man’s hat from off his head, that hat becomes a symbol of
that man’s liberty. When he fights me for his hat, he is
fighting me for his liberty.”’ |

Hermione was nonplussed.

** Yes,”’ she said, irritated. ‘* But that way of arguing
by imaginary instances is not supposed to be genuine, is it?
A man does not come and take my hat from off my head,
does he ?”’

** Only because the law prevents him,’’ said Gerald.

** Not only,’’ said Birkin. ‘* Ninety-nine men out of a
hundred don’t want my hat.’’

‘** That’s a matter of opinion,”’ said Gerald.

** Or the hat,”’ laughed the bridegroom. :

** And if he does want my hat, such as it is,’’ said Birkin,
** why, surely it is open to me to decide, which is a greater
loss to me, my hat, or my liberty as a free and indifferent
man. If I am compelled to offer fight, I lose the latter.

Henrie ert ne eile a i Laat hs EA PRod M Te e eh Ph Ves ae ent we
UO AM Na hey ASR

SHORTLANDS 31

It is a question which is worth more to me, my pleasant
liberty of conduct, or my hat.’’

°° Yes,’?. said Hermione, watching Birkin strangely.

66 Yes. 29°

_ ** But would you let somebody come and snatch your hat
off your head ?”’ the bride asked of Hermione.

The face of the tall straight woman turned slowly and
as if drugged to this new speaker.

** No,” she replied, in a low inhuman tone, that seemed
to contain a chuckle. ‘‘ No, I shouldn’t let anybody take
my hat off my head.”’

** How would you prevent it ?’’ asked Gerald.

** I don’t know,’’ replied Hermione slowly. ‘* Probably
I should kill him.”

There was a strange chuckle in her tone, a dangerous and
‘convincing humour in her bearing.

** Of course,’’ said Gerald, ‘* I can see Rupert’s point. It
is a question to him whether his hat or his peace of mind
is more important.”’

_ ** Peace of body,’’ said Birkin.

** Well, as you like there,’’ replied Gerald. ‘* But how

are you going to decide this for a nation P”’
_ ** Heaven preserve me,’’ laughed Birkin.
_ ** Yes, but suppose you have to?’’ Gerald persisted.
me ° Then it is the same. If the national crown-piece is an
old hat, then the thieving gent may have it.”’
_ ** But can the national or racial hat be an old hat ?”’ in-
sisted Gerald.

** Pretty well bound to be, I believe,’’ said Birkin,

** I’m not so sure,’’ said Gerald.

** I don’t agree, Rupert,’’ said Hermione.

** All right,” said Birkin.

** I’m all for the old national hat,’’ laughed Gerald.

_ ** And a fool you look in it,’’ cried Diana, his pert sister
- who was just in her teens.

_ ** Oh, we’re quite out of our depths with these old hats,”’
eried Laura Crich. ‘°* Dry up now, Gerald. We’re going to
drink toasts. Let us drink toasts. Toasts—glasses, glasses
-—now then, toasts! Speech! Speech! ”

_ Birkin, thinking about race or national death, watched
his glass being filled with champagne. The bubbles broke
at the rim, the man withdrew, and feeling a sudden thirst
_at the sight of the fresh wine, Birkin drank up his glass. A

32 WOMEN IN LOVE

queer little tension in the room roused him. He felt a sharp
constraint. |

** Did I do it by accident, or on purpose ?”’? he asked him-
self. And he decided that, according to the vulgar phrase,
he had done it “ accidentally on purpose.’? He looked
round at the hired footman. And the hired footman came,
with a silent step of cold servantlike disapprobation.
Birkin decided that he detested toasts, and footmen, and
assemblies, and mankind altogether, in most of its aspects.
Then he rose to make a speech. But he was somehow dis-
gusted. |

At length it was over, the meal. Several men strolled out
into the garden. There was a lawn, and flower-beds, and at
the boundary an iron fence shutting off the little field or
park. The view was pleasant; a highroad curving round
the edge of a low lake, under the trees. In the spring air,
the water gleamed and the opposite woods were purplish
with new life. Charming Jersey cattle came to the fence,
breathing hoarsely from their velvet muzzles at the human
beings, expecting perhaps a crust.

Birkin leaned on the fence. A cow was breathing wet
hotness on his hand.

** Pretty cattle, very pretty,’’ said Marshall, one of the
brothers-in-law. ‘* They give the best milk you can have.”’

‘* ‘Yes,’’ said Birkin.

‘* Eh, my little beauty, eh, my beauty! *? said Marshall,
in a queer high falsetto voice, that caused the other man to
have convulsions of laughter in his stomach.

** Who won the race, Lupton?’’ he called to the bride-
groom, to hide the fact that he was laughing.

The bridegroom took his cigar from his mouth.

** The race?’? he exclaimed. Then a rather thin smile
came over his face. He did not want to say anything about
the flight to the church door. ‘* We got there together.
At least she touched first, but I had my hand on her
shoulder.”’ |

** What’s this ?’? asked Gerald.

Birkin told him about the race of the bride and the bride-
groom. ,

‘*H’m! ” said Gerald, in disapproval. ‘* What made
you late then ?”’

*¢ Lupton would talk about the immortality of the soul,”
said Birkin, *‘ and then he hadn’t got a button-hook.”’

SHORTLANDS 33

** Oh God! ”’ cried Marshall. ‘* The immortality of the
soul on your wedding day! Hadn’t you got anything
better to occupy your mind ?”’

** What’s wrong with it ?’’ asked the bridegroom, a clean-
shaven naval man, flushing sensitively.

** Sounds as if you were going to be executed instead of
married. The immortality of the soul! ’’ repeated the
brother-in-law, with most killing emphasis.

But he fell quite flat.

** And what did you decide?’’? asked Gerald, at once

pricking up his ears at the thought of a metaphysical dis-
cussion.

** You don’t want a soul to-day, my boy,’’ said Marshall.

** Tt?d be in your road.”’

** Christ ! Marshall, go and talk to somebody else,”’ cried

_ Gerald, with sudden impatience.

** By God, I’m willing,’? said Marshall, in a temper.

_** Too much bloody soul and talk altogether— ”’

He withdrew in a dudgeon, Gerald staring after him with

) angry eyes, that grew gradually calm and amiable as the

_ stoutly-built form of the other man passed into the distance.

** There’s one thing, Lupton,”’ said Gerald, turning sud-

denly to the bridegroom. ‘* Laura won’t have brought

eee

such a fool into the family as Lottie did.”

** Comfort yourself with that,’’ laughed Birkin.
** I take no notice of them,”’ laughed the bridegroom.
** What about\this race then—who began it?’? Gerald

_ asked.

** We were late. Laura was at the top of the churchyard

Y steps when our cab came up. She saw Lupton bolting to-

Wards her. And she fled. But why do you look so cross?
“Does it hurt your sense of the family dignity ?”
** It does, rather,’? said Gerald. ‘* If you’re doing a

thing, do it properly, and if you’re not going to do it pro-

_ perly, leave it alone.’

** Very nice aphorism,” said Birkin.
** Don’t you agree ?”’ asked Gerald. |
** Quite,’’ said Birkin. ‘* Only it bores me rather, when

_ you become aphoristic.”’

** Damn you, Rupert, you want all the aphorisms your

_ Own way,”’ said Gerald.

** No. I want them out of the way, and you’re always

_ shoving them in it.’

Cc

Fit

pane *8 ©) Saree, Ot ese ce eee PO fe le eee eel eee eee i

‘2 i bt AL ee ee Se ete GN ARAL ie ey Me) =.
S ; ty a es aU ala Sy pi as) wy, ras Reh no Dh
A. : TT ; a4 ya) « Ty ye og ie,

L * “ * 2x 5 Tiny i

34 WOMEN IN LOVE

Gerald smiled grimly at this humorism. Then he made a
little gesture of dismissal, with his eyebrows.

** You don’t believe in having any standard of
behaviour at all, do you?’? he challenged Birkin,
censoriously.

** Standard—no. I hate standards. But they’re neces-
sary for the common ruck. Anybody who is anything can
just be himself and do as he likes.”’

** But what do you mean by being himself?’ said
Gerald. ‘* Is that an aphorism or a cliché ?”’

** T mean just doing what you want to do. I think it was
perfect good form in Laura to bolt from Lupton to the
church door. It was almost a masterpiece in good form.
It’s the hardest thing in the world to act spontaneously on
one’s impulses—and it’s the only really gentlemanly thing
to do—provided you’re fit to do it.’’

** You don’t expect me to take you seriously, do you ?”’
asked Gerald.

** Yes, Gerald, you’re one of the very few people I do
expect that of.’’

** Then I’m afraid I can’t come up to your expectations
here, at any rate. You think people should just do as they
like.”?

‘** J think they always do. But I should like them to like
the purely individual thing in themselves, which makes
them act in singleness. And they only like to do the col-
lective thing.”’

** And I,”’ said Gerald grimly, ‘* shouldn’t like to be in a
world of people who acted individually and spontaneously,
as you call it. We should have everybody cutting every-
body else’s throat in five minutes.”’ 3

‘“* That means you would like to be cutting everybody’s
throat,’’ said Birkin.

‘© How does that follow ?”? asked Gerald crossly.

‘* No man,” said Birkin, ** cuts another man’s throat
unless he wants to cut it, and unless the other man wants
it cutting. This is a complete truth. It takes two people
to make a murder: a murderer and a murderee. And a
murderee is a man who is murderable. And a man who is
murderable is a man who in a profound if hidden lust desires
to be murdered.”’

‘* Sometimes you talk pure nonsense,’’ said Gerald to
Birkin. ‘‘ As a matter of fact, none of us wants our throat

SHORTLANDS 35

cut, and most other people would like to cut it for us—
some time or other— ”’

** It’s a nasty view of things, Gerald,”’ said Birkin, ‘* and
no wonder you are afraid of yourself and your own un-
happiness.”’

** How am I afraid of myself?’’ said Gerald; ‘* and I
don’t think I am unhappy.”’

' © You seem to have a lurking desire to have your gizzard
slit, and imagine every man has his knife up his sleeve for
you,”’ Birkin said.

** How do you make that out?” said Gerald.

** From you,” said Birkin.

There was a pause of strange enmity between the two
men, that was very near to love. It was always the same
between them; always their talk brought them into a
deadly nearness of contact, a strange, perilous intimacy
which was either hate or love, or both. They parted with
apparent unconcern, as if their going apart were a trivial
occurrence. And they really kept it to the level of trivial
occurrence. Yet the heart of each burned from the other.
They burned with each other, inwardly. This they would
never admit. They intended to keep their relationship a
casual free-and-easy friendship, they were not going to be
so unmanly and unnatural as to allow any heart-burning
between them. They had not the faintest belief in deep
_ relationship between men and men, and their disbelief pre-
_ vented any development of their powerful but suppressed
__ friendliness.

CHAP: III. CLASS-ROOM

A SCHOOL-DAY was drawing to aclose. In the class-room
the last lesson was in progress, peaceful and still. It was
elementary botany. The desks were littered with catkins,
hazel and willow, which the children had been sketching.
But the sky had come overdark, as the end of the afternoon
approached : there was scarcely light to draw any more.
Ursula stood in front of the class, leading the children by
questions to understand the structure and the meaning of
the catkins. '

A heavy, copper-coloured beam of light came in at the
west window, gilding the outlines of the children’s heads
with red gold, and falling on the wall opposite in a rich,
ruddy illumination. Ursula, however, was scarcely con-
scious of it. She was busy, the end of the day was here,
the work went on as a peaceful tide that is at flood, hushed
to retire.

This day had gone by like so many more, in an activity
that was like a trance. At the end there was a little haste,
to finish what was in hand. She was pressing the children
with questions, so that they should know all they were to
know, by the time the gong went. She stood in shadow in
front of the class, with catkins in her hand, and she leaned
towards the children, absorbed in the passion of instruction.

She heard, but did not notice the click of the door. Sud-
denly she started. She saw, in the shaft of ruddy, copper-
coloured light near her, the face of aman. It was gleaming
like fire, watching her, waiting for her to be aware. It
startled her terribly. She thought she was going to faint.
All her suppressed, subconscious fear sprang into being, with
anguish.

** Did I startle you?’’ said Birkin, shaking hands with
her. ‘* I thought you had heard me come in.” s
“* No,”’ she faltered, scarcely able to speak. He laughed,

saying he was sorry. She wondered why it amused him.

*¢ It is so dark,’ he said. ‘* Shall we have the light ?”’

And moving aside, he switched on the strong electric
lights. The class-room was distinct and hard, a strange
place after the soft dim magic that filled it before he came.

36

CLASS-ROOM | 37

Birkin turned curiously to look at Ursula. Her eyes were

round and wondering, bewildered, her mouth quivered

slightly. She looked like one who is suddenly wakened. |
There was a living, tender beauty, like a tender light of
dawn shining from her face. He looked at her with a new
pleasure, feeling gay in his heart, irresponsible.

** You are doing catkins ?’’ he asked, picking up a piece of —
hazel from a scholar’s desk in front of him. ‘* Are they as
far out as this? I hadn’t noticed them this year.”’

He looked absorbedly at the tassel of hazel in
his hand.

** The red ones too! ”? he said, looking at the flickers of

-erimson that came from the female bud.

Then he went in among the desks, to see the scholars’
books. Ursula watched his intent progress. There was a
stillness in his motion that hushed the activities of her heart.
She seemed to be standing aside in arrested silence, watch-
ing him move in another, concentrated world. His
presence was so quiet, almost like a vacancy in the corporate
air.

Suddenly he lifted his face to her, and her heart quickened
at the flicker of his voice.

** Give them some crayons, won’t you?’’ he said, ** so
that they can make the gynaecious flowers red, and the
androgynous yellow. I’d chalk them in plain, chalk in
nothing else, merely the red and the yellow. Outline
scarcely matters in this case. There is just the one fact to
emphasize.”’

** IT haven’t any crayons,’’ said Ursula.

** There will be some somewhere—red and yellow, that’s
all you want.’’

Ursula sent out a boy on a quest.

** It will make the books untidy,’’ she said to Birkin,
flushing deeply.

** Not very,’’ he said. ‘* You must mark in these things
obviously. It’s the fact you want to emphasize, not the
subjective impression to record. What’s the fact ?—red
little spiky stigmas of the female flower, dangling yellow
male catkin, yellow pollen flying from one to the other.

Make a pictorial record of the fact, as a child does when

drawing a face—two eyes, one nose, mouth with teeth—
so— * And he drew a figure on the blackboard.
At that moment another vision was seen through the glass

aaBeaualae WOMEN IN LOVE

panels of the door. It was Hermione Roddice. Birkin
went and opened to her.

** I saw your car,”’ she said to him. ‘* Do you mind my
coming to find you? I wanted to see you when you were on
duty.”’

She looked at him for a long time, intimate and playful,
then she gave a short little laugh. And then only she
turned to Ursula, who, with all the class, had been watch-
ing the little scene between the lovers.

** How do you do, Miss Brangwen,’’ sang Hermione, in
her low, odd, singing fashion, that sounded almost as if she
were poking fun. ‘* Do you mind my coming in?”

Her grey, almost sardonic eyes rested all the while on
Ursula, as if summing her up.

** Oh no,”’ said Ursula.

** Are you sure? *? repeated Hermione, with complete
sang froid, and an odd, half-bullying effrontery.

** Oh no, I like it awfully,’’ laughed Ursula, a little bit
excited and bewildered, because Hermione seemed to be

compelling her, coming very close to her, as if intimate with

her; and yet, how could she be intimate?

This was the answer Hermione wanted. She turned satis-
fied to Birkin.

‘* What are you doing ?”’ she sang, in her casual, inquisi-
tive fashion. |

** Catkins,”’ he replied.

** Really ! ’? she said. ‘* And what do you learn about
them?’? She spoke all the while in a mocking, half teasing
fashion, as if making game of the whole business. She
picked up a twig of the catkin, piqued by Birkin’s attention
to it.

She was a strange figure in the class-room, wearing a
large, old cloak of greenish cloth, on which was a raised
pattern of dull gold. The high collar, and the inside of the
cloak, was lined with dark fur. Beneath she had a dress of
fine lavender-coloured cloth, trimmed with fur, and her hat
was close-fitting, made of fur and of the dull, green-and-gold
figured stuff. She was tall and strange, she looked as if she
had come out of some new, bizarre picture.

‘* Do you know the little red ovary flowers, that produce
the nuts? Have you ever noticed them?” he asked her.
And he came close and pointed them out to her, on the sprig
she held.

Sats oS

CLASSROOM 39

** No,” she replied. ‘* What are they ?”’

** Those are the little seed-producing flowers, and the long
catkins, they only produce pollen, to fertilise them.’’

**Do they, do they!’ repeated Hermione, looking
closely. |

** From those little red bits, the nuts come; if they re-
ceive pollen from the long danglers.”’

** Little red flames, little red flames,’? murmured Her-
mione to herself. And she remained for some moments
looking only at the small buds out of which the red flickers
of the stigma issued.

-** Aren’t they beautiful? I think they’re so beautiful,”’
she said, moving close to Birkin, and pointing to the red
filaments with her long, white finger.

** Had you never noticed them before ?’’ he asked.

** No, never before,’’ she replied.

** And now you will always see them,” he said.

** Now I shall always see them,’’ she repeated. ‘* Thank
you so much for showing me. I think they’re so beautiful—
little red flames— ”’

Her absorption was strange, almost rhapsodic. Both
Birkin and Ursula were suspended. The little red pistillate
flowers had some strange, almost mystic-passionate attrac-
tion for her.

The lesson was finished, the books were put away, at last
the class was dismissed. And still Hermione sat at the
table, with her chin in her hand, her elbow on the table, her
long white face pushed up, not attending to anything.
Birkin had gone to the window, and was looking from the
brilliantly-lighted room on to the grey, colourless outside,
where rain was noiselessly falling. Ursula put away her
things in the cupboard.

At length Hermione rose and came near to her.

‘** Your sister has come home ?”’ she said.

** Yes,”’ said Ursula.

‘© And does she like being back in Beldover ?’’

** No,’’ said Ursula. |

** No, I wonder she can bear it. It takes all my strength,
to bear the ugliness of this district, when I stay here.
Won’t you come and see me? Won’t you come with your
sister to stay at Breadalby for a few days ?—do— ”’

** Thank you very much,”’ said Ursula.

** Then I will write to you,’’ said Hermione. ‘** You

\ ‘ 9 ie ~ Wile aa 2:
. oer rane ' Cais ya Ab ‘ES
or STAD AN pe Vi

”

40 WOMENINLOVE ‘ |

think your sister will come? I should be so glad. I think ©
she is wonderful. I think some of her work is really won-
derful. I have two water-wagtails, carved in wood, and
painted—perhaps you have seen it ?’’

** No,”’ said Ursula.

**T think it is perfectly wonderful—like a flash of in-
stinct— ”’

** Her little carvings are strange,’’ said Ursula.

** Perfectly beautiful—full of primitive passion— ”’

** Isn’t it queer that she always likes little things P—she
must always work small things, that one can put between
one’s hands, birds and tiny animals. She likes to look
through the wrong end of the opera glasses, and see the
world that way—why is it, do you think ?”’

Hermione looked down at Ursula with that long, detached
scrutinising gaze that excited the younger woman.

** Yes,’? said Hermione at length. ‘‘ It is curious. The
little things seem to be more subtle to her— ”’

** But they aren’t, are they? A mouse isn’t any more
subtle than a lion, is it ?’’

Again Hermione looked down at Ursula with that long
scrutiny, as if she were following some train of thought of
her own, and barely attending to the other’s speech.

** T don’t know,”’ she replied.

** Rupert, Rupert,’’ she sang mildly, calling him to her.
He approached in silence.

** Are little things more subtle than big things ?’’ ashe
asked, with the odd grunt of laughter in her voice, as if she
were making game of him in the question.

** Dunno,” he said.

** T hate subtleties,’’ said Ursula.

Hermione looked at her slowly.

** Do you? ” she said.

**T always think they are a sign of weakness,’ said
Ursula, up in arms, as if her prestige were threatened.

Hermione took no notice. Suddenly her face puckered,
her brow was knit with thought, she seemed twisted in
troublesome effort for utterance.

** Do you really think, Rupert,’ she asked, as if Ursula
were not present, ‘‘ do you really think it is worth while?
Do you really think the children are better for being roused
to consciousness ?””

A dark flash went over his face, a silent fury. He was

CLASSROOM 41

hollow-cheeked and pale, almost unearthly. And the
woman, with her serious, conscience-harrowing question |
tortured him on the quick.

‘* They are not roused to consciousness,”’ he said. ‘* Con-
sciousness comes to them, willy-nilly.’’

** But do you think they are better for having it quick-
ened, stimulated? Isn’t it better that they should remain
unconscious of the hazel, isn’t it better that they should see
as a whole, without all this pulling to pieces, all this know-
ledge P”’

** Would you rather, for yourself, know or not know, that
the little red flowers are there, putting out for the pollen ?”’
he asked harshly. His voice was brutal, scornful, cruel.

Hermione remained with her face lifted up, abstracted.
He hung silent in irritation.

** IT don’t know,”’ she replied, balancing mildly. ‘I
don’t know.”*

** But knowing is everything to you, it is all your life,”
he broke out. She slowly looked at him.

** Ts it ?’? she said.

** To know, that is your all, that is your life—you have
only this, this knowledge,’’ he cried. ‘* There is only one
tree, there is only one fruit, in your mouth.”’

Again she was some time silent.

** Is there ?’”’ she said at last, with the same untouched
calm. And then in a tone of whimsical inquisitiveness :
** What fruit, Rupert ?’’

** The eternal apple,’’ he replied in exasperation, hating.
his own metaphors.

** Yes,’’ she said. There was a look of exhaustion about
her. For some moments there was silence. Then, pulling
herself together with a convulsed movement, Hermione re-
sumed, in a sing-song, casual voice :

** But leaving me apart, Rupert; do you think the chil-
dren are better, richer, happier, for all this knowledge; do
you really think they are? Or is it better to leave them un-
touched, spontaneous. Hadn’t they better be animals,
simple animals, crude, violent, anything, rather than this
self-consciousness, this incapacity to be spontaneous.”’

They thought she had finished. But with a queer rumb-
ling in her throat she resumed, ‘‘ Hadn’t they better be
anything than grow up crippled, crippled in their souls,
crippled in their feelings—so thrown back—so turned back

be Saar Se eva a RSA age new a Ty le Paes MS ale
HE LOA ag Ata RS OSS ear Con amr cn ee
is Bat ele ARs SI ; i

42 WOMEN IN LOVE.

on themselves—incapable— ”’ Hermione clenched her fist

like one in a trance—‘*‘ of any spontaneous action, always
deliberate, always burdened with choice, never carried
away.” |

Again they thought she had finished. But just as he was
going to reply, she resumed her queer rhapsody—* never
carried away, out of themselves, always conscious, always
self-conscious, always aware of themselves. Isn’t anything
better than this? Better be animals, mere animals with no
mind at all, than this, this nothingness— ”

** But do you think it is knowledge that makes us unliving
and self-conscious ?’’? he asked irritably.

She opened her eyes and looked at him slowly.

** Yes,’’ she said. She paused, watching him all the
while, her eyes vague. Then she wiped her fingers across
her brow, with a vague weariness. It irritated him bitterly.
** It is the mind,” she said, ** and that is death.’? She
raised her eyes slowly to him: ‘** Isn’t the mind— ” she
said, with the convulsed movement of her body, “ isn’t it
our death? Doesn’t it destroy all our spontaneity, all our
instincts? Are not the young people growing up to-day,
really dead before they have a chance to live ?’’

** Not because they have too much mind, but too little,”
he said brutally.

** Are you sure?’’ she cried. ‘* It seems to me the re-
verse. They are over-conscious, burdened to death with
consciousness.”

** Imprisoned within a limited, false set of concepts,”’ he
cried.

But she took no notice of this, only went on with her own
rhapsodic interrogation.

** When we have knowledge, don’t we lose everything but
knowledge ?’’? she asked pathetically. ‘* If I know about
the flower, don’t I lose the flower and have only the know-
ledge? Aren’t we exchanging the substance for the
shadow, aren’t we forfeiting life for this dead quality of
knowledge? And what does it mean to me, after all?
What does all this knowing mean to me? It means
nothing.”’ |

*¢ You are merely making words,”’ he said; ** knowledge
means everything to you. Even your animalism, you want

it in your head. You don’t want to be an animal, you want —

to observe your own animal functions, to get a mental thrill

}
i i ie iin

CLASSROOM 48

out of them. It is all purely secondary—and more decadent
than the most hide-bound intellectualism. What is it but
the worst and last form of intellectualism, this love of yours
for passion and the animal instincts? Passion and the in-
stincts—you want them hard enough, but through your
head, in your consciousness. It all takes place in your
head, under that skull of yours. Only you won’t be con-
- scious of what actually is : you want the lie that will match
the rest of your furniture.’

Hermione set hard and poisonous against this attack:
Ursula stood covered with wonder and shame. It fright-
ened her, to see how they hated’each other.

** It’s all that Lady of Shalott business,’’ le said, in his
strong abstract voice. He seemed to be charging her before
the unseeing air. ‘* You’ve got that mirror, your own fixed
will, your immortal understanding, your own tight con-
scious world, and there is nothing beyond it. There, in the
mirror, you must have everything. But now you have
come to all your conclusions, you want to go back and be
like a savage, without knowledge. You want a life of pure
sensation and ‘ passion.’ ”’

He quoted the last word satirically against her. She sat
convulsed with fury and violation, speechless, like a stricken
pythoness of the Greek oracle.

‘* But your passion is a lie,’? he went on vioientiy. ‘* It
isn’t passion at all, it is your will. It’s your bullying will.
You want to clutch things and have them in your power.
You want to have things in your power. And why?
Because you haven’t got any real body, any dark sensual -
body of life. You have no sensuality. You have only
your will and your conceit of consciousness, and your lust
for power, to know.”’

He looked at her in mingled hate and contempt, also in
pain because she suffered, and in shame because he knew he
tortured her. He had an impulse to kneel and plead for
forgiveness. But a bitterer red anger burned up to fury in
him. He became unconscious of her, he was only a pas-
sionate voice speaking.

** Spontaneous! *”? he cried. ‘* You and spontaneity !
You, the most deliberate thing that ever walked or crawled !
You’d be verily deliberately spontaneous—that’s you.
Because you want to have everything in your own volition,
your deliberate voluntary consciousness. You want it all

EAL Sh COO AA Rgiiec eva ene
Ee) a ak ee ea oak eo

44 WOMEN IN LOVE

in that loathsome little skull of yours, that ought to be
cracked like a nut. For you’ll be the same till it is cracked, —
like an insect in its skin. If one cracked your skull perhaps
one might get a spontaneous, passionate woman out of you,
with real sensuality. As it is, what you want is porno-
graphy—looking at yourself in mirrors, watching your
naked animal actions in mirrors, so that you can have it
all in your consciousness, make it all mental.”’

There was a sense of violation in the air, as if too much
was said, the unforgivable. Yet Ursula was concerned now
only with solving her own problems, in the light of his
words. She was pale and abstracted.

** But do you really want sensuality???’ she asked,
puzzled.

Birkin looked at her, and became intent in his explana-
tion. |

** Yes,”’ he said, ** that and nothing else, at this point.
It is a fulfilment—the great dark knowledge you can’t have
in your head—the dark involuntary being. It is death to
one’s self—but it is the coming into being of another.’’

** But how? How can you have knowledge not in your
head ?”? she asked, quite unable to interpret his phrases.

** In the blood,’’ he answered ; ** when the mind and the
known world is drowned in darkness—everything must go— |
there must be the deluge. Then you find yourself a pal-
pable body of darkness, a demon— ”’

** But why should I be a demon— ?’’ she asked.

*°* Woman wailing for her demon lover ’— ”? he quoted
—* why, I don’t know.”’

Hermione roused herself as from a death—annihilation.

** He is such a dreadful satanist, isn’t he?” she drawled
to Ursula, in a queer resonant voice, that ended in a shrill
little laugh of pure ridicule. The two women were jeering
at him, jeering him into nothingness. The laugh of the\
shrill, triumphant female sounded from Hermione, jeering
him as if he were a neuter.

** No,’”’? he said. ‘* You are the real devil who won’t let
life exist.”’

She looked at him with a long, slow look, malevolent,
supercilious. 7

*€ You know all about it, don’t you ?”’ she said, with slow,
cold, cunning mockery.

‘* Enough,” he replied, his face fixing fine and clear like

2 Bay ¢ vital et . + <
ol a LA 1 oC Sa pea

CLASSROOM 45

steel. A horrible despair, and at the same time a sense of
release, liberation, came over Hermione. She turned with
a pleasant intimacy to Ursula.

** You are sure you will come to Breadalby?’’ she said,
urging.

“© Yes, I should like to very much,’”’ replied Ursula.

Hermione looked down at her, gratified, reflecting, and
strangely absent, as if possessed, as if not quite there.

‘I’m so glad,’’ she said, pulling herself together.
‘© Some time in about a fortnight. Yes? I will write to
you here, at the school, shall I? Yes. And you’ll be sure
tocome? Yes. I shall beso glad. Good-bye! Good-bye !”’

Hermione held out her hand and looked into the eyes of
the other woman. She knew Ursula as an immediate rival,
and the knowledge strangely exhilarated her. Also she was
taking leave. It always gave her a sense of strength, ad-
vantage, to be departing and leaving the other behind.

_ Moreover she was taking the man with her, if only in hate.

Birkin stood aside, fixed and unreal. But now, when it
was his turn to bid good-bye, he began to speak again.

‘‘ There’s the whole difference in the world,’ he said,
** between the actual sensual being, and the vicious mental-
deliberate profligacy our lot goes in for. In our night-time,
there’s always the electricity switched on, we watch our-
selves, we get it all in the head, really. You’ve got to
lapse out before you can know what sensual reality is, lapse
into unknowingness, and give up your volition. You’ve
got to do it. You’ve got to learn not-to-be, before you can
come into being. 3

‘‘ But we have got such a conceit of ourselves—that’s
where it is. We are so conceited, and so unproud. We’ve
got no pride, we’re all conceit, so conceited in our own
papier-maché realised selves. We'd rather die than give up
our little self-righteous self-opinionated self-will.”’

There was silence in the room. Both women were hostile
and resentful. He sounded as if he were addressing a meet-
ing. Hermione merely paid no attention, stood with her
shoulders tight in a shrug of dislike.

Ursula was watching him as if furtively, not really aware
of what she was seeing. There was a great physical attrac-
tiveness in him—a curious hidden richness, that came
through his thinness and his pallor like another voice, con-
veying another knowledge of him. It was in the curves of

Ot Eres Ra semen ed

'

46 WOMEN IN LOVE

his brows and his chin, rich, fine, exquisite curves, the
powerful beauty of life itself. She could not say what it
was. But there was a sense of richness and of liberty.

** But we are sensual enough, without making ourselves
so, aren’t we?’’ she asked, turning to him with a certain
golden laughter flickering under her greenish eyes, like a
challenge. And immedidtely the queer, careless, terribly
attractive smile came over his eyes and brows, though his
mouth did not relax.

** No,’’ he said, *‘ we aren’t. We’re too full of our-
selves.”” ;

** Surely it isn’t a matter of conceit,’’ she cried.

** That and nothing else.’’

She was frankly puzzled.

** Don’t you think that people are most conceited of all
about their sensual powers ?’’ she asked.

** That’s why they aren’t sensual—only sensuous—which
is another matter. They’re always aware of themselves—
and they’re so conceited, that rather than release them-
selves, and live in another world, from another centre,
they’d— ”’

** You want your tea, don’t you,”’ said Hermione, turn-
ing to Ursula with a gracious kindliness. ‘* You’ve worked
all day— ”’

Birkin stopped short. A spasm of anger and chagrin
went over Ursula. His face set. And he bade good-bye, as
if he had ceased to notice her.

They were gone. Ursula stood looking at the door for
some moments. Then she put out the lights. And having
done so, she sat down again in her chair, absorbed and lost.
And then she began to cry, bitterly, bitterly weeping : but
whether for misery or joy, she never knew.

CHAP: IV. DIVER

THE week passed away. On the Saturday it rained, a soft
drizzling rain that held off at times. In one of the intervals
Gudrun and Ursula set out for a walk, going towards
Willey Water. The atmosphere was grey and translucent,
the birds sang sharply on the young twigs, the earth would
be quickening and hastening in growth. The two girls
walked swiftly, gladly, because of the soft, subtle rush of
morning that filled the wet haze. By the road the black-
thorn was in blossom, white and wet, its tiny amber grains
burning faintly in the white smoke of blossom. Purple
twigs were darkly luminous in the grey air, high hedges
glowed like living shadows, hovering nearer, coming into
creation. The morning was full of a new creation.

When the sisters came to Willey Water, the lake lay all
grey and visionary, stretching into the moist, translucent
vista of trees and meadow. Fine electric activity in sound
came from the dumbles below the road, the birds piping one
against the other, and water mysteriously plashing, issuing
from the lake. ..

The two girls drifted swiftly along. In front of them, at
the corner of the lake, near the road, was a mossy boat-
house under a walnut tree, and a little landing-stage where
a boat was moored, wavering like a shadow on the still grey
water, below the green, decayed poles. All was shadowy
with coming summer.

_ Suddenly, from the boat-house, a white figure ran out,

frightening in its swift sharp transit, across the old landing-
stage. It launched in a white are through the air, there
- was a bursting of the water, and among the smooth ripples
a swimmer was making out to space, in a centre of faintly
heaving motion. The whole otherworld, wet and remote,
he had to himself. He could move into the pure trans-
lucency of the grey, uncreated water.

‘Gudrun stood by the stone wall, watching.

** How I envy him,” she said, in low, desirous tones.

** Ugh! ” shivered Ursula. ‘* So cold! ”’

** Yes, but how good, how really fine, to swim out
there! *’? The sisters stood watching the swimmer move

47

Mab ree See) NOL Wg ty RETA AEN abr ene bY ae a

48 WOMEN IN LOVE

further into the grey, moist, full space of the water, pulsing
with his own small, invading motion, and arched over with
mist and dim woods.

** Don’t you wish it were you?’? asked Gudrun, looking at
Ursula.

** I do,’’ said Ursula. ‘* But I’m not sure—it’s so wet.”’

** No,” said Gudrun, reluctantly. She stood watching
the motion on the bosom of the water, as if fascinated. He,
having swum a certain distance, turned round and was
swimming on his back, looking along the water at the two
girls by the wall. In the faint wash of motion, they could
see his ruddy face, and could feel him watching them.

** It is Gerald Crich,’’ said Ursula.

_ * IT know,”’ replied Gudrun.

And she. stood motionless gazing over the water at the
face which washed up and down on the flood, as he swam
steadily. From his separate element he saw them and he
exulted to himself because of his own advantage, his posses-
sion of a world to himself. He was immune and perfect..
He loved his own vigorous, thrusting motion, and the
violent impulse of the very cold water against his limbs,
buoying him up. 4He could see the girls watching him
a way off, outside, and that pleased him. He lifted his arm
from the water, in a sign to them.

** He is waving,’’ said Ursula.

** Yes,’ replied Gudrun. They watched him. He waved
again, with a strange movement of recognition across the
difference.

** Like a Nibelung,’’? laughed Ursula. Gudrun said
nothing, only stood still looking over the water.

Gerald suddenly turned, and was swimming away swiltly,
with a side stroke. He was alone now, alone and immune
in the middle of the waters, which he had all to himself.
He exulted in his isolation in the new element, unquestioned
and unconditioned. He was happy, thrusting with his legs
and all his body, without bond or connection anywhere,
just himself in the watery world.

Gudrun envied him almost painfully. Even this momen-
tary possession of pure isolation and fluidity seemed to her
so terribly desirable that she felt herself as if damned, out
there on the high-road.

“© God, what it is to be a man! ”’ she cried.

*¢ What ?”’ exclaimed Ursula in surprise.

DIVER 49°

** The freedom, the liberty, the mobility ! *? cried Gudrun,
strangely flushed and brilliant.. ‘‘ You’re a man, you want
to do a thing, you do it. You haven’t the thousand
_ obstacles a woman has in front of her.’’

Ursula wondered what was in Gudrun’s mind, to occasion
this outburst. She could not understand.

_** What do you want to do?” she asked.

** Nothing,”* cried Gudrun, in swift refutation. ‘* But
supposing I did. Supposing I want to swim up that water.
It is impossible, it is one of the impossibilities of
life, for me to take my clothes off now and jump
in. But isn’t it ridiculous, doesn’t it simply pre-
vent our living! ”’

She was so hot, so flushed, so. furious, that Ursula was
puzzled.

The two sisters went on, up the road. They were passing
between the trees just below Shortlands. They looked up
at the long, low house, dim and glamorous in the wet
morning, its cedar trees slanting before the windows.
Gudrun seemed to be studying it closely.

**Don’t you think it’s attractive, Ursula?’’ asked
Gudrun.

** Very,”’ said Ursula. ‘* Very peaceful and charming.”’

** It has form, too—it has a period.”’

** What period ?”’ ,

** Oh, eighteenth century, for certain; Dorothy Words-
worth and Jane Austen, don’t you think ?”’

Ursula laughed.

** Don’t you think so ?’? repeated Gudrun.

** Perhaps. But I don’t think the Criches fit the period.
I know Gerald is putting in a private electric plant, for
lighting the house, and is making all kinds of latest im-
provements.’’

Gudrun shrugged her shoulders swiftly.

** Of course,’’ she said, *‘ that’s quite inevitable.’’

** Quite,’’ laughed Ursula. ‘* He is several generations
of youngness at one go. They hate him for it. He takes
them all by the scruff of the neck, and fairly flings them
along. - He’ll have to die soon, when he’s made every pos-
sible improvement, and there wall be nothing more to im-
prove. He’s got go, anyhow.”

** Certainly, he’s got go,’’ said eal sce ** In fact I’ve
never seen a man that showed signs of so much. The un-

D

CMR AR tapes RY PASS PONS Dot Wn (EO ea a a Os Ue ee a a od iy att
ewe het TRS PEERING Qh TY Giese We rey! cela — en

50 WOMEN IN LOVE

on thing is, where aces his go go to, what becomes
of it?’

** Oh I know,”’ said Ursula. ‘‘ It goes in applying the
latest appliances ! ” .

** Exactly,”’ said Gudrun.

** You know he shot his brother?’’ said Ursula.

** Shot his brother ?’’ cried Gudrun, frowning as if in dis-
approbation. .

** Didn*t you know? Oh yes!—I thought you knew.
He and his brother were playing together with a gun. He
told his brother to look down the gun, and it was loaded,
and blew the top of his head off. Isn’t it a horrible story ?’?

** How fearful! ’’ cried Gudrun. ‘“ But it is long
ago ???

** Oh yes, they were quite boys?’ said Ursula. ‘I
think it is one of the most horrible stories I know.’’

** And he of course did not know that the gun was
loaded ?””

** Yes. You see it was an old thing that had been lying
in the stable for years. Nobody dreamed it would ever go
off, and of course, no one imagined it was loaded. But
isn’t it dreadful, that it should happen ?”’

** Frightful ! *? cried Gudrun. ‘* And isn’t it horrible too
to think of such a thing happening to one, when one was a
child, and having to carry the responsibility of it all through
one’s life. Imagine it, two boys playing together—then
this comes upon them, for no reason whatever—out of the
air. Ursula, it’s very frightening! Oh, it’s one of the
things I can’t bear. Murder, that is thinkable, because
there’s a will behind it. But a thing like that to happen
to one— ”’ |

** Perhaps there was an unconscious will behind it,’ said
Ursula. ‘* This playing at killing has some primitive desire
for killing in it, don’t you think ?”’

°°: Desire! ?? said Gudrun, coldly, stiffening a little. “I
can’t see that they were even playing at killing. I suppose
one boy said to the other, ‘ You look down the barrel while
I pull the trigger, and see what happens.’ It seems to me
the purest form of accident.’’

** No,”’ said Ursula. ‘‘ I couldn’t pull the trigger of the
emptiest gun in the world, not if some-one were looking
down the barrel. One instinctively doesn’t do it—one
can’t.”’

ia aaa i i hd i be ald i
DIVER i: i

Gudrun was silent for some moments, in sharp disagree-
ment. |

** Of course,”” she said coldly. ‘* If one is a woman, and
grown up, one’s instinct prevents one. But I goatee see
how that applies to a couple of boys playing together.”

Her voice was cold and angry.

** Yes,”’ persisted Ursula. At that moment they heard

a woman’s voice a few yards off say loudly :
_ ** Oh damn the thing! ’? They went forward and saw
Laura Crich and Hermione Roddice in the field on the other
side of the hedge, and Laura Crich struggling with the gate,
to get out. Ursula at once hurried up and helped to lift
the gate.

** Thanks so much, *? said Laura, looking up flushed and
amazon-like, yet rather confused. ‘‘ It isn’t right on the
hinges.”’

** No,”? said Ursula. ‘* And they’re so heavy.”’

5 Surprising ! *? cried Laura.

** How do you do,”’ sang Hermione, from out of the field,
the moment she could make her voice heard. ‘* It’s nice
now. Are you going for a walk? Yes. Isn’t the young
green beautiful? So beautiful—quite burning. Good
morning—good morning—you’ll come and see me ?—thank
you so much—next week—yes—good-bye, g-o-o-d b-y-e.”’

Gudrun and Ursula stood and watched her slowly waving
her head up and down, and waving her hand slowly in dis-
missal, smiling a strange affected smile, making a tall queer,
frightening figure, with her heavy fair hair slipping to her
eyes. Then they moved off, as if they had been dismissed
like inferiors. The four women parted.

As soon as they had gone far enough, Ursula said, her
cheeks burning,

** I do think she’s impudent.”’

_ ** Who, Hermione Roddice ?’’ asked Gudrun. ‘* Why?”’

* The way she treats one—impudence ! ””

‘‘ Why, Ursula, what did you notice that was so impu-
dent ?”? asked Gudrun rather coldly.

** Her whole manner. Oh, it’s impossible, the way she
tries to bully one. Pure bullying. She’s an impudent
woman. ‘* You’ll come and see me,’ as if we should be
falling over ourselves for the privilege.’’

** T can’t understand, Ursula, what you are so much put
out about,’’ said Gudrun, in some exasperation. ‘* One

52 WOMEN IN LOVE

knows those women are impudent—these free women who
have emancipated themselves from the aristocracy.”’

** But it is so unnecessary—so vulgar,”’ cried Ursula.

‘No, I don’t see it. And if I did—pour moi, elle
n’existe pas. I don’t grant her the power to be impudent
to me.”’

** Do you think she likes you?’? asked Ursula.

** Well, no, I shouldn’t think she did.”’

** Then why does she ask you to go to Breadalby and
stay with her?”

Gudrun lifted her shoulders in a low shrug.

** After all, she’s got the sense to know we’re not just
the ordinary run,’’ said Gudrun. ‘‘ Whatever she is, she’s
not a fool. And I’d rather have somebody I detested, than
the ordinary woman who keeps to her own set. Hermione
Roddice does risk herself in some respects.”’

Ursula pondered this for a time.

**T doubt it,’ she replied. ‘* Really she risks nothing.
I suppose we ought to admire her for knowing she can
invite us—school teachers—and risk nothing.’

** Precisely ! *? said Gudrun. ‘* Think of the myriads of
women that daren’t do it. She makes the most of her
privileges—that’s something. I suppose, really, we should
do the same, in her place.”’

“© No,”? said Ursula. ‘‘ No. It would bore me. I
couldn’t spend my time playing her games. It’s infra
dig.”’ .

The two sisters were like a pair of scissors, snipping off
everything that came athwart them; or like a knife and a
whetstone, the one sharpened against the other.

‘“‘ Of course,”? cried Ursula suddenly, “‘ she ought to
thank her stars if we will go and see her. You are per-
fectly beautiful, a thousand times more beautiful than ever
she is or was, and to my thinking, a thousand times more
beautifully- dressed, for she never looks fresh and natural,
like a flower, always old, thought-out; and we are more
intelligent than most people.”’

** Undoubtedly ! ’? said Gudrun.

‘* And it ought to be admitted, simply,” said Ursula.

‘* Certainly it ought,’’ said Gudrun. ‘* But you'll find
that the really chic thing is to be so absolutely ordinary, so
perfectly commonplace and like the person in the street,
that you really are a masterpiece of humanity, not the

ee tes) ial ee
; Nis ey bia

DIVER. 8

person in the street actually, but the artistic creation of
her— ”’

** How awful! ”? cried Ursula.

‘© Yes, Ursula, it is awful, in most respects. You daren’t
be anything that isn’t amazingly a4 terre, so much 4 terre
that it is the artistic creation of ordinariness.”’

** It’s very dull to create oneself into nothing better,”’
laughed Ursula.

** Very dull! ’’ retorted Gudrun. ‘* Really Ursula, it is
dull, that’s just the word. One longs to be high-flown, and

- make speeches like Corneille, after it.’

Gudrun was becoming flushed and excited over her own
cleverness.

** Strut,”’? said Ursula. ‘*‘ One wants to strut, to be a
swan among geese.”’

** Exactly,’’ cried Gudrun, ‘* a swan among geese.”’

‘*¢ They are all so busy playing the ugly duckling,”’ cried
Ursula, with mocking laughter. ‘‘ And I don’t feel a bit
like a humble and pathetic ugly duckling. I do feel like a
swan among geese—I can’t help it. They make one feel
so. And I don’t care what they think of me. Je m’en
fiche.’’

Gudrun looked up at Ursula with a queer, uncertain envy
and dislike.

‘** Of course, the only thing to do is to despise them all—
just all,’’ she said.

The sisters went home again, to read and talk and work,
and wait for Monday, for school. Ursula often wondered
what else she waited for, besides the beginning and end of
the school week, and the beginning and end of the holidays.
This was a whole life! Sometimes she had periods of tight
horror, when it seemed to her that her life would pass away,
and be gone, without Having been more than this. But
she never really accepted’it. Her spirit was active, her
life like a shoot that is growing steadily, but which has not
yet come above ground.

CHAP: V. IN THE TRAIN

OnE day at this time Birkin was called to London. He was
not very fixed in his abode. He had rooms in Nottingham,
because his work lay chiefly in that town. But often he
was in London, or in Oxford. He moved about a great
deal, his life seemed uncertain, without any definite rhythm,
any organic meaning.

On the platform of the railway station he saw Gerald
Crich, reading a newspaper, and evidently waiting for the
train. Birkin stood some distance off, among the people.
It was against his instinct to approach anybody.

From time to time, in a manner characteristic of him,
Gerald lifted his head and looked round. Even though he
was reading the newspaper closely, he must keep a watchful
eye on his external surroundings. There seemed to be a
dual consciousness running in him. He was thinking vigor-
ously of something he read in the newspaper, and at the
same time his eye ran over the surfaces of the life round
him, and he missed nothing. Birkin, who was watching
him, was irritated by his duality. He noticed too, that
Gerald seemed always to be at bay against everybody, in
spite of his queer, genial, social manner when roused.

Now Birkin started violently at seeing this genial look
flash on to Gerald’s face, at seeing Gerald approaching with
hand outstretched.

** Hallo, Rupert, where are you going ?”’

** London. So are you, I suppose.”’

6¢ Yes— 99

Gerald’s eyes went over Birkin’s face in curiosity.

** We’ll travel together if you like,”’ he said.

** Don’t you usually go first ??? asked Birkin.

**T can’t stand the crowd,”’ replied Gerald. ‘* But
third’ll be all right. There’s a restaurant car, we can have
some tea.’

The two men looked at the station clock, having nothing
further to say.

‘* What were you reading in the paper?”’’ Birkin asked.

Gerald looked at him quickly.

** Isn’t it funny, what they do put in the newspapers,”’

54

IN THE TRAIN 55

he said. ‘* Here are two leaders— ” he held out his Daily
Telegraph, ‘* full of the ordinary newspaper cant— ”’ he
scanned the columns down—‘‘ and then there’s this little—
I dunno what you’d call it, essay, almost—appearing with
the leaders, and saying there must arise a man who will
give new values to things, give us new truths, a new atti-
tude to life, or else we shall be a crumbling nothingness in
a few years, a country in ruin— ”’

** T suppose that’s a bit of newspaper cant, as well,”’ said
Birkin.

** Tt sounds as if the man meant it, and quite genuinely,”’
said Gerald.

** Give it to me,’’ said Birkin, holding out his hand for
the paper.

The train came, and they went on board, sitting on either
side a little table, by the window, in the restaurant car.
Birkin glanced over his paper, then looked up at Gerald,
who was waiting for him.

** I believe the man means it,’’ he said, ‘* as far as he
means anything.”’

- And do you think it’s true? Do you think we really
want a new gospel ?’’ asked Gerald.

Birkin shrugged his shoulders.

** T think the people who say they want a new religion
are the last to accept anything new. They want novelty
right enough. But to stare straight at this life that we’ve
brought upon ourselves, and reject it, absolutely smash up
the old idols of ourselves, that we sh’ll never do. You’ve
got very badly to want to get rid of the old, before anything
new will appear—even in the self.’’

Gerald watched him closely.

** You think we ought to break up this life, just start and
_ let fly ??? he asked. we

‘‘ This life. Yes Ido. We’ve got to bust it completely,
or shrivel inside it, as in a tight iia For it won’t expand
any more.’

There was a queer little smile in Gerald’s eyes, a look of
amusement, calm and curious.

** And how do you propose to begin? I suppose you
mean, reform the whole order of society ?’’? he asked.

Birkin had a slight, tense frown between the brows. He
too was impatient of the conversation.

** T don’t propose at all,’’ he replied. ‘* When we really

\ Ae

56 WOMEN IN LOVE
_ want to go for something better, we shall smash the old.
Until then, any sort of proposal, or making proposals, is no
more than a tiresome game for self-important people.”

The little smile began to die out of Gerald’s eyes, and he
said, looking with a cool stare at Birkin : ;

** So you really think things are very bad ?’’

** Completely bad.”’

The smile appeared again.

** In what way ?”’ :

** Every way,’ said Birkin. ‘‘ We are such dreary liars.
Our one idea is to lie to ourselves. We have an ideal of a
perfect world, clean and straight and sufficient. So we
cover the earth with foulness ; life is a blotch of labour, like
insects scurrying in filth, so that your collier can have a ~
pianoforte in his parlour, and you can have a butler and a
motor-car in your up-to-date house, and as a nation we can
sport the Ritz, or the Empire, Gaby Deslys and the Sunday
newspapers. It is very dreary.”’

Gerald took a little time to re-adjust himself after this
tirade.

** Would you have us live without houses—return to
nature ?”’ he asked.

** T would have nothing at all. People only do what they
want to do—and what they are capable of doing. If they
were capable of anything else, there would be something
else.”’

Again Gerald pondered. He was not going to take offence
at Birkin. |

** Don’t you think the collier’s pianoforte, as you call it,
is a symbol for something very real, a real desire for some-
thing higher, in the collier’s life ?’’

‘© Higher! ’? cried Birkin. ‘‘ Yes. Amazing heights of
upright grandeur. It makes him@so much higher in his
neighbouring collier’s eyes. He sees himself reflected in
the neighbouring opinion, like in a Brocken mist, several
feet taller on the strength of the pianoforte, and he is satis-
fied. He lives for the sake of that Brocken spectre, the
reflection of himself in the human opinion. You do the
same. If you are of high importance to humanity you are
of high importance to yourself. That is why you work so ©
hard at the mines. If you can produce coal to cook five
thousand dinners a day, you are five thousand times more
important than if you cooked only your own dinner.”’

IN THE, TRAIN 57

** I suppose I am,”’’ laughed Gerald.

** Can’t you see,’’ said Birkin, *‘ that to help my neigh-
bour to eat is no more than eating myself. ‘I eat, thou
eatest, he eats, we eat, you eat, they eat ’—and what then?
Why should every, man decline the whole verb. First per-
son singular is enough for me.’

** You’ve got to start with material things,”’ said Gerald.
Which statement Birkin ignored.

** And we’ve got to live for something, we’re not just
cattle that can graze and have done with it,’ said
Gerald.

** Tell me,’’ said Birkin. ‘* What do you live for?’’

Gerald’s face went baffled.

** What do I live for?’’ he repeated. ‘‘ I suppose I live
to work, to produce something, in so far as I am a purposive
being. Apart from that, I live because I am living.’’

** And what’s your work? Getting so many more
thousands of tons of coal out of the earth every day. And
when we’ve got all the coal we want, and all the plush fur-
niture, and pianofortes, and the rabbits are all stewed and
eaten, and we’re all warm and our bellies are filled and
we’re listening to the young lady performing on the piano-
forte—what then? What then, when you’ve made a real
fair start with your material things ?’’

Gerald sat laughing at the words and the mocking humour
of the other man. But he was cogitating too.

** We haven’t got there yet,’’ he replied. ‘* A good
many people are still waiting for the rabbit and the fire to
cook it.’’

** So while you get the coal I must chase the rabbit ?”’
said Birkin, mocking at Gerald.

** Something like that,’’ said Gerald.

Birkin watched him narrowly. He saw the perfect good-
humoured callousness, even strange, glistening malice, in
Gerald, glistening through the plausible ethics of produc-
tivity.

** Gerald,” he said, “‘ I rather hate you.”’

** I know you do,” said Gerald. “‘ Why do you?”

Birkin mused inscrutably for some minutes.

** I should like to know if you are conscious of hating
me,”’ he said at last. ‘* Do you ever consciously detest me
—hate me with mystic hate? There are odd moments when
I hate you starrily.”’

ROO SMe LA ta Sale Aire Metta eel Wa a Melita a) ed han

jf ere ye ne
‘ ie ie PAL bibs he

58 WOMEN IN LOVE |

Gerald was rather taken aback, even a little disconcerted.
He did not quite know what to say. _

** T may, of course, hate you sometimes,”’ he said. ** But
I’m not aware of it—never acutely aware of it, that is.”’

*¢ So much the worse,”’ said Birkin. |

Gerald watched him with curious eyes. He could not
quite make him out.

** So much the worse, is it?’’ he repeated.

There was a silence between the two men for some time,
as the train ran on. In Birkin’s face was a little irritable
tension, a sharp knitting of the brows, keen and difficult.
‘Gerald watched him warily, carefully, rather calculatingly,
for he could not decide what he was after.

Suddenly Birkin’s eyes looked straight and overpowering
into those of the other man. .

‘¢ What do you think is the aim and object of your life,
Gerald ?”’? he asked.

Again Gerald was taken aback. He could not think what
his friend was getting at. Was he poking fun, or not?

‘* At this moment, I couldn’t say off-hand,” he replied,
with faintly ironic humour.

** Do you think love is the be-all and the end-all of life ?””
Birkin asked, with direct, attentive seriousness.

** Of my own life?’’ said Gerald.

66 Yes.”?

There was a really puzzled pause.

“© T can’t say,’’ said Gerald. ‘* It hasn’t been, so far.”’

‘© What has your life been, so far?”

‘* Oh—finding out things for myself—and getting ex-
periences—and making things go.”

Birkin knitted his brows like sharply moulded steel.

‘* T find,’ he said, ** that one needs some one really pure
single activity—I should call love a single pure activity.
But I don’t really love anybody—not now.”’

‘‘ Have you ever really loved anybody ?”’ asked Gerald.

‘© Yes and no,”’ replied Birkin.

“€ Not finally ??’ said Gerald.

‘¢ Finally—finally—no,”’ said Birkin.

** Nor I,’’ said Gerald.

** And do you want to?” said Birkin.

Gerald looked with a long, twinkling, almost sardonic
look into the eyes of the other man.

** T don’t know,” he said.

y= 25S eet A re Ss SN ko a eS
Sy SAG F ey ; é

IN THE TRAIN 59

** | do—I want to love,’’ said Birkin.

** You do?”

‘© Yes. I want the finality of love.”

** The finality of love,’’ repeated Gerald. And he waited
for a moment. |

“* Just one woman ?”’ he added. The evening light, flood- _
ing yellow along the fields, lit up Birkin’s face with a tense,
abstract steadfastness. Gerald still could not make it out.

** Yes, one woman,” said Birkin.

But to Gerald it sounded as if he were insistent rather
than confident.

**T don’t believe a woman, and nothing but a woman,
will ever make my life,’”’ said Gerald.

** Not the centre and core of it—the love between you
and a woman ?”’ asked Birkin.

Gerald’s eyes narrowed with a queer dangerous smile as
he watched the other man.

** T never quite feel it that way,” he said.

** You don’t? Then wherein does life centre, for you?’’

**T don’t know—that’s what I want somebody to tell
me. As far as I can make out, it doesn’t centre at all. It
is artificially held together by the social mechanism.”’

Birkin pondered as if he would crack something.

** I know,”’ he said, ** it just doesn’t centre. The old
ideals are dead as nails—nothing there. It seems to me
there remains only this perfect union with a woman—sort
of ultimate marriage—and there isn’t anything else.”’

** And you mean if there isn’t the woman, there’s
nothing ?’’ said Gerald.

** Pretty well that—seeing there’s no God.”’

** Then we’re hard put to it,’? said Gerald. And he
turned to Icok out of the window at the flying, golden
landscape.

Birkin could not help seeing how beautiful and soldierly
his face was, with a certain courage to be indifferent.

** You think its heavy odds against us?’’ said Birkin.

** If we’ve got to make our life up out of a woman, one
woman, woman only, yes, I do,’”’ said Gerald. ‘* I don’t
believe I shall ever make up my life, at that rate.’’

Birkin watched him almost angrily.

** You are a born unbeliever,’’ he said.

**T only feel what I feel,’ said Gerald. And he looked
again at Birkin almost sardonically, with his blue, manly,

PY ee ergy te, Or MND Wel STUGE ane g (17) We SERRE hy ce Ae aL VD)
, ; A : UO Nga tayo ee
;

60 WOMEN IN LOVE

sharp-lighted eyes. Birkin’s eyes were at the moment full
of anger. But swiftly they became troubled, doubtful, then
full of a warm, rich affectionateness and laughter.
** It troubles me very much, Gerald,’’ he said, wrinkling
his brows. | |
** I can see it does,’’ said Gerald, uncovering his mouth
in a manly, quick, soldierly laugh. |

Gerald was held unconsciously by the other man. He
wanted to be near him, he wanted to be within his sphere
of influence. There was something very congenial to him
in Birkin. But yet, beyond this, he did not take much
notice. He felt that he, himself, Gerald, had harder and
more durable truths than any the other man knew. He
felt himself older, more knowing. It was the quick-chang-
ing warmth and venality and brilliant warm utterance he
loved in his friend. It was the rich play of words and quick
interchange of feelings he enjoyed. The real content of the
words he. never really considered : he himself knew better.

Birkin knew this. He knew that Gerald wanted to be
fond of him without taking him seriously. And this made
him go hard and cold. As the train ran on, he sat looking
at the land, and Gerald fell away, became as nothing to him.

Birkin looked at the land, at the evening, and was think-
ing: ‘* Well, if mankind is destroyed, if our race is de-
stroyed like Sodom, and there is this beautiful evening with
the luminous land and trees, I am satisfied. That which
informs it all is there, and can never be lost. After all,
what is mankind but just one expression of the incompre-
hensible. And if mankind passes away, it will only mean
that this particular expression is completed and done.
That which is expressed, and that which is to be expressed,
eannot be. diminished. There it is, in the shining evening.
Let mankind pass away—time it did. The creative utter- —
ances will not cease, they will only be there. Humanity
doesn’t embody the utterance of the incomprehensible any
more. Humanity is a dead letter. There will be a new em-
bodiment, in anew way. Let humanity disappear as quick
as possible.”*

Gerald interrupted him by asking,

‘* Where are you staying in London?”’

Birkin looked up.

‘‘ With a man in Soho. I pay part of the rent of a flat,
and stop there when I like.”

/

IN THE TRAIN. 61

- Good idea—have a place more or less your own,”’ said
Gerald. .

‘* Yes. But I don’t care for it much. I’m tired of the
people I am bound to find there.’’

** What kind of people ?”’

** Art—music—London Bohemia—the most pettifogging
calculating Bohemia that ever reckoned its pennies. But
there are a few decent people, decent in some respects.
They are really very thorough rejecters of the world—per-
haps they live only in the gesture of rejection and negation
—hbut negatively something, at any rate.’’

** What are they ?—painters, musicians ?”’

** Painters, musicians, writers—hangers-on, models, ad-
vanced young people, anybody who is openly at outs with
the conventions, and belongs to. nowhere particularly.
They are often young fellows down from the University, and
girls who are living their own lives, as they say.’

** All loose ?”’ said Gerald. .

Birkin could see his curiosity roused.

** In one way. Most bound, in another. For all their
shockingness, all on one note.”’

He looked at Gerald, and saw how his blue eyes were lit
up with a little flame of curious desire. He saw too how
good-looking he was. Gerald was attractive, his blood
seemed fluid and electric. His blue eyes burned with a
keen, yet cold light, there was a certain beauty, a beautiful
passivity in all his body, his moulding.

** We might see something of each other—I am in London
for two or three days,’’ said Gerald.

** Yes,”’ said Birkin, ‘* I don’t want to go to the theatre,
or the music hall—you’d better come round to the flat, and
see what you can make of Halliday and his crowd.”’

** Thanks—lI should like to,’’ laughed Gerald. ‘* What
are you doing to-night ?’’

** I promised to meet Halliday at the Pompadour. It’s a
bad place, but there is nowhere else.’’

** Where is it??? asked Gerald.

** Piccadilly Circus.’

** Oh yes—well, shall I come round there ?”’

** By all means, it might amuse you.”’

The evening was falling. They had passed Bedford.
Birkin watched the country, and was filled with a sort of
. hopelessness. He always felt this, on approaching London.

62 WOMEN IN LOVE

His dislike of mankind, of the mass of mankind, amounted
almost to an illness.

** * Where the quiet coloured end of evening smiles
Miles and miles— ’ ”’

he was murmuring to himself, like a man condemned to
death. Gerald, who was very subtly alert, wary in all his
senses, leaned forward and asked smilingly :

** What were you saying?’? Birkin glanced at him,
laughed, and repeated :

‘© © Where the quiet coloured end of evening smiles,
Miles and miles,

Over pastures where the something something sheep
Half asleep— ’ ”’

Gerald also looked now at the country. And Birkin, who,
for some reason was now tired and dispirited, said to him :

**T always feel doomed when the train is running into
London. I feel such a despair, so hopeless, as if it were the
end of the world.”’

‘** Really! *? said Gerald. ‘* And does the end of the
world frighten you ?’’

Birkin lifted his shoulders in a slow shrug.

*“©T don’t know,’’ he said. ‘* It does while it hangs
imminent and doesn’t fall. But people give me a bad feel-
ing—very bad.”

There was a roused glad smile in Gerald’s eyes.

** Do they?”? he said. And he watched the other man
critically. :

In a few minutes the train was running through the dis-
grace of outspread London. Everybody in the carriage was
on the alert, waiting to escape. At last they were under the
huge arch of the station, in the tremendous shadow of the
town. Birkin shut himself together—he was in now.

The two men went together in a taxi-cab.

‘** Don’t you feel like one of the damned ?”’ asked Birkin,
as they sat in a little, swiftly-running enclosure, and
watched the hideous great street. - |

** No,” laughed Gerald.

*‘ Tt is real death,”’ said Birkin.

CHAP: VI. CREME DE MENTHE

THEY met again in the café several hours later. Gerald
went through the push doors into the large, lofty room
where the faces and heads of the drinkers showed dimly
through the haze of smoke, reflected more dimly, and re-
peated ad infinitum in the great mirrors on the walls, so that
one seemed to enter a vague, dim world of shadowy drinkers
humming within an atmosphere of blue tobacco smoke.
There was, however, the red plush of the seats to give sub-
stance within the bubble of pleasure.

Gerald moved in his slow, observant, glistening-attentive
motion down between the tables and the people whose
shadowy faces looked up as he passed. He seemed to be
entering in some strange element, passing into an illumin-
ated new region, among a host of licentious souls. He was
pleased, and entertained. He looked over all the dim,
evanescent, strangely illuminated faces that bent
across the tables. Then he saw Birkin rise and
signal to him.

At Birkin’s table was a girl with dark, soft, fluffy hair
cut short in the artist fashion, hanging level and full almost
like the Egyptian princess’s. She was small and delicately
made, with warm colouring and large, dark hostile eyes.
There was a delicacy, almost a beauty in all her form, and
at the same time a certain attractive grossness of spirit,
that made a little spark leap instantly alight in Gerald’s
eyes.

Birkin, who looked muted, unreal, his presence left out,
introduced her as Miss Darrington. She gave her hand
with a sudden, unwilling movement, looking all the while
at Gerald with a dark, exposed stare. A glow came over
him as he sat down.

The waiter appeared. Gerald glanced at the glasses of
the other two. Birkin was drinking something green, Miss
Darrington had a small liqueur glass that was empty save
for a tiny drop.

** Won’t you have some more— ?’’

** Brandy,” she said, sipping her last drop and putting
down the glass. The waiter disappeared.

63

EL TE AS AER ee SR ae ie ee. ee ee
Pies ath bs pan ; haitad aes ete im wi
res f ‘ aie Sean unnae

64 WOMEN IN LOVE

** No,”’ she said to Birkin. ‘* He doesn’t know I’m back.
He’ll be terwified when he sees me here.”’

She spoke her r’s like w’s, lisping with a slightly babyish
pronunciation which was at once affected and true to her
character. Her voice was dull and toneless.

** Where is he then ?’’ asked Birkin.

** He’s doing a private show at Lady Snellgrove’s,”’ said
the girl. ‘* Warens is there too.”

There was a pause.

** Well, then,”’ said Birkin, in a dispassionate protective
manner, ** what do you intend to do?’’

The girl paused sullenly. She hated the question.

t a Ax
Sig

(ae ae Lee

a als
‘ -
in

* I don’t intend to do anything,”’ she replied. ‘‘ I shall

look for some sittings to-morrow.’’

** Who shall you go to?’’ asked Birkin.

** I shall go to Bentley’s first. But I believe he’s angwy
with me for running away.”’

** That is from the Madonna ??’’

** Yes. And then if he doesn’t want me, I know I can
get work with Carmarthen.”’

** Carmarthen ?”’

** Lord Carmarthen—he does photographs.’’

** Chiffon and shoulders— ”’ :

** Yes. But he’s awfully decent.”? There was a pause.

** And what are you going to do about Julius ?’’ he asked.

** Nothing,” she said. ‘‘ I shall just ignore him.”

** You’ve done with him altogether???’ But she turned
aside her face sullenly, and did not answer the question.

Another young man came hurrying up to the table. —

** Hallo Birkin! MHallo Pussum, when did you come
back P”’ he said eagerly.

** To-day.”’

** Does Halliday know ?”’

**T don’t know. I don’t care either.’

** Ha-ha! The wind still sits in that quarter, does it?
Do you mind if I come over to this table ?”’

** I’m talking to Wupert, do you mind?” she replied,
coolly and yet appealingly, like a child.

“* Open confession—good for the soul, eh?’’ said the
young man. ‘* Well, so long.”’

And giving a sharp look at Birkin and at Gerald, the
young man moved off, with a swing of his coat skirts.

All this time Gerald had been completely ignored. And

ota Se «i NE oat Me ATS Si ae EP
fa sips ite a a ot ae ary

CREME DE MENTHE 65

yet he felt that the girl was physically aware of his
proximity. He waited, listened, and tried to piece together
the conversation.

** Are you staying at the flat?’’ the girl asked, of Birkin.

** For three days,”’ replied Birkin. ‘* And you?’’

**T don’t know yet. I can always go to Bertha’s. 7.
There was a silence.

Suddenly the girl turned to Gerald, and said, in a rather
formal, polite voice, with the distant manner of a woman
who accepts her position as a social inferior, yet assumes
intimate camaraderie with the male she addresses :

** Do you know London well ?’’

*¢ T can hardly say,’ he laughed. ‘* I’ve been up a good
many times, but I was never in this place before.”’

** You’re not an artist, then?’ she said, in a tone that
placed him an outsider.

** No,” he replied.

** He’s a soldier, and an explorer, and a Napoleon of
industry,’’ said Birkin, giving Gerald his credentials for
Bohemia.

** Are you a soldier?’’. asked the girl, with a cold yet
lively curiosity.

** No, I resigned my commission,’’ said Gerald, *‘ some
years ago.”’

** He was in the last war,’’ said Birkin.

** Were you really ?”’ said the girl.

** And then he explored the Amazon,”’ said Birkin, ‘* and

now he is ruling over coal-mines.”’
_ The girl looked at Gerald with steady, calm curiosity.
He laughed, hearing himself described. He felt proud too,
full of male strength. His blue, keen eyes were lit up with
laughter, his ruddy face, with its sharp fair hair, was full of
satisfaction, and glowing with life. He piqued her.

** How long are you staying ?’”’ she asked him.

** A day or two,”’ he replied. ‘* But there is no particu-
lar hurry.”’

Still she stared into his face with that slow, full gaze
which was so curious and so exciting to him. He was
acutely and delightfully conscious of himself, of his own
attractiveness. He felt full of strength, able ‘to give off a
sort of electric power. And he was aware of her dark, hot-
looking eyes upon him. She had beautiful eyes, dark,
fully-opened, hot, naked in their looking at him. And on

E

66 WOMEN IN LOVE

them there seemed to float a film of disintegration, a sort of
misery and sullenness, like oil on water. She wore no hat
in the heated café, her loose, simple jumper was strung on
a string round her neck. But it was made of rich peach-
coloured crépe-de-chine, that hung heavily and softly from —
her young throat and her slender wrists. Her appearance
was simple and complete, really beautiful, because of her
regularity and form, her soft dark hair falling full and
level on either side of her head, her straight, small, soft-
ened features, Egyptian in the slight fulness of their curves,
her slender neck and the simple, rich-coloured smock hang-
ing on her slender shoulders. She was very still, almost
null, in her manner, apart and watchful.

She appealed to Gerald strongly. He felt an awful, en-
joyable power over her, an instinctive cherishing very near
to cruelty. For she was a victim. He felt that she was in
his power, and he was generous. The electricity was turgid
and voluptuously rich, in his limbs. He would be able to
destroy her utterly in the strength of his discharge. But
she was waiting in her separation, given.

They talked banalities for some time. Suddenly Birkin
said :

** There’s Julius ! ’? and he half rose to his feet, motioning
to the newcomer. The girl, with a curious, almost evil
motion, looked round over her shoulder without moving her
body. Gerald watched her dark, soft hair swing over her
ears. He felt her watching intensely the man who was
approaching, so he looked too. He saw a pale, full-built
young man with rather long, solid fair hair hanging from
under his black hat, moving cumbrously down the room, his
face lit up with a smile at once naive and warm, and
vapid. He approached towards Birkin, with a haste of
welcome.

It was not till he was quite close that he perceived the
girl. He recoiled, went pale, and said, in a high squealing
voice :

‘* Pussum, what are you doing here ?”’

The café looked up like animals when they hear a cry.
Halliday hung motionless, an almost imbecile smile flicker-
ing palely on his face. The girl only stared at him with a
black look in which flared an unfathomable hell of know-
ledge, and a certain impotence. She was limited by him.

‘© Why have you come back ?”? repeated Halliday, in the

CREME DE MENTHE 67

same high, hysterical voice. ‘* I told you not to come
bae aa? ' 3

The girl did not answer, only stared in the same viscous,
heavy fashion, straight at him, as he stood recoiled, as if
for safety, against the next table.

** You know you wanted her to come back—come and
sit down,’’ said Birkin to him.

** No I didn’t want her to come back, and I told her not
to come back. What have you come for, Pussum ?’’

** For nothing from you,’’ she said in a heavy voice of
resentment.

‘* Then why have you come back at all?’’ cried Halliday,
his voice rising to a kind of squeal.

** She comes as she likes,’’ said Birkin. ‘* Are you going
to sit down, or are you not ?”’

** No, I won’t sit down with Pussum,’’ cried Halliday.

** I won’t hurt you, you needn’t be afraid,’’ she said to
him, very curtly, and yet with a sort of protectiveness to-
wards him, in her voice.

Halliday came and sat at the table, putting his hand on
his heart, and crying :

** Oh, it’s given me such a turn! Pussum, I wish you
wouldn’t do these things. Why did you come back ?”’

** Not for anything from you,”’ she repeated.

** You’ve said that before,’’ he cried in a high voice.

She turned completely away from him, to Gerald Crich,
whose eyes were shining with a subtle amusement.

** Were you ever vewy much afwaid of the savages ?’’
she asked in her calm, dull childish voice.

** No—never very much afraid. On the whole they’re
harmless—they’re not born yet, you can’t feel really afraid
of them. You know you can manage them.”’

** Do you weally? Aren’t they very fierce ?’’

** Not very. There aren’t many fierce things, as a matter
of fact. There aren’t many things, neither people nor
animals, that have it in them to be really dangerous.’’

** Except in herds,’’ interrupted Birkin.

** Aren’t there really??? she said. ‘* Oh, I thought
savages were all so dangerous, they’d have your life before
you could look round.’’

** Did your’? he laughed. ‘* They are over-rated,
savages. They’re too much like other people, not exciting,

after the first acquaintance.’

+ BD a Ft a) gh pear ee fo rey Ne nae Shae att a sony 4

68 - WOMEN IN LOVE eo

«Oh, it’s not so very wonderfully brave then, to be ant es
explorer i “nS

** No. It’s more a question of hardships than of
terrors.””

** Oh! And weren’t you ever afraid ?’’

** In my life? I don’t know. Yes, I’m afraid of some |
things—of being shut up, locked up anywhere—or
being fastened. I’m afraid of being bound hand
and foot.”’

She looked at him steadily with her dark eyes, that rested
on him and roused him so deeply, that it left his upper self
quite calm. It was rather delicious, to feel her drawing his
self-revelations from him, as from the very innermost dark
marrow of his body. She wanted to know. And her dark
eyes seemed to be looking through into his naked organism.
He felt, she was compelled to him, she was fated to come
into contact with him, must have the seeing him and know-
ing him. And this roused a curious exultance. Also he
felt, she must relinquish herself into his hands, and be sub-
ject to him. She was so profane, slave-like, watching him,
absorbed by him. It was not that she was interested in

what he said; she was absorbed by his self-revelation, by _

.him, she wanted the secret of him, the experience of his
male being.

Gerald’s face was lit up with an uncanny smile, full of
light and rousedness, yet unconscious. He sat with his
arms on the table, his sun-browned, rather sinister hands, -
that were animal and yet very shapely and attractive,
pushed forward towards her. And they fascinated her.
And she knew, she watched her own fascination.

Other men had come to the table, to talk with Birkin
and Halliday. Gerald said in a low voice, apart, to
Pussum :

** Where have you come back from ?”?

** From the country,’’ replied Pussum, in a very low, yet
fully resonant voice. Her face closed hard. Continually
she glanced at Halliday, and then a black flare came over
her eyes. The heavy, fair young man ignored her com-
pletely ; he was really afraid of her. For some moments she
would be unaware of Gerald. He had not conquered her

et.
tia And what has Halliday to do with it?’’ he asked, his
voice still muted.

uatiaty ae} He at its he He Ree tip aa A ie eye ange A) tb SS ae ’

CREME DE MENTHE 69

She would not answer for some seconds. Then she said,
unwillingly :

** He made me go and live with him, and now he wants
to throw me over. And yet he won’t let me go to anybody
else. He wants me to live hidden in the country. And
then he says I persecute him, that he can’t get rid of
me.”’

** Doesn’t know his own mind,”’’ said Gerald.

** He hasn’t any mind, so he can’t know it,’’ she said.
** He waits for what somebody tells him to do. He never
does anything he wants to do himself—because he doesn’t
know what he wants. He’s a perfect baby.”’

Gerald looked at Halliday for some moments, watching
the soft, rather degenerate face of the young man. Its very
softness was an attraction; it was a soft, warm, corrupt
nature, into which one might plunge with gratification.

** But he has no hold over you, has he ?’’ Gerald asked.

** You see he made me go and live with him, when I
didn’t want to,’’ she replied. ‘*‘ He came and cried to me,
tears, you never saw so many, saying he couldn’t bear it
unless I went back to him. And he wouldn’t go away, he
would have stayed for ever. He made me go back. Then
every time he behaves in this fashion. And now I’m going
to have a baby, he wants to give me a hundred pounds and
send me into the country, so that he would never see me
nor hear of me again. But I’m not going to do it,
after— ”’

A queer look came over Gerald’s face.

** Are you going to have a child ?’’ he asked incredulous.
It seemed, to look at her, impossible, she was so young and
so far in spirit from any childbearing.

She looked full into his face, and her dark, inchoate eyes
had now a furtive look, and a look of a knowledge of evil,
dark and indomitable. A flame ran secretly to his heart.

** Yes,”? she said. ‘* Isn’t it beastly ?”’

** Don’t you want it?” he asked.

** IT don’t,’’ she replied emphatically.

** But— * he Said, ** how long have you known ?”’

** Ten weeks,’’ she said.

All the time she kept her dark, thelibate eyes full upon
him. He remained silent, thinking. Then, switching off
and becoming cold, he asked, in a voice full of considerate
kindness :

/

70 WOMEN IN LOVE

** Is there anything we can eat here? Is there anything —
you would like ?’’

** Yes,”’ she said, ** I should adore some oysters.”’

** All right,”’ he said. ‘* We’ll have oysters.’? And he
beckoned to the waiter.

Halliday took no notice, until the little plate was set
before her. Then suddenly he cried : ©

** Pussum, you can’t eat oysters when you’re drinking
brandy .”’

** What has it go to do with you?”’ she asked.

** Nothing, nothing,’? he cried. ‘* But you can’t eat
oysters when you’re drinking brandy.”’

** I’m not drinking brandy,’’ she replied, and she
sprinkled the last drops of her liqueur over his face. He
gave an odd squeal. She sat looking at him, as if in-
different.

** Pussum, why do you do that?” he cried in panic. He
gave Gerald the impression that he was terrified of her, and
that he loved his terror. He seemed to relish his own
horror and hatred of her, turn it over and extract every
flavour from it, in real panic. Gerald thought him a
stiange fool, and yet piquant.

** But Pussum,”’ said another man, in a very small,
quick Eton voice, ‘* you promised not to hurt him.”’

** T haven’t hurt him,’’ she answered.

*¢ What will you drink?’’ the young man asked. He
was dark, and smooth-skinned, and full of a stealthy vigour.

** IT don’t like porter, Maxim,”’ she replied.

** You must ask for champagne,’’ came the whispering,
gentlenianly voice of the other.

Gerald suddenly realised that this was a hint to him.

** Shall we have champagne ?”’ he asked, laughing.

** Yes please, dwy,’’ she lisped childishly.

Gerald watched her eating the oysters. She was delicate
and finicking in her eating, her fingers were fine and
seemed very sensitive in the tips, so she put her food apart
with fine, small motions, she ate carefully, delicately. It
pleased him very much to see her, and it irritated Birkin.
They were all drinking champagne. Maxim, the prim
young Russian with the smooth, warm-coloured face and
black, oiled hair was the only one who seemed to be per-
fectly calm and sober. Birkin was white and abstract,
unnatural, Gerald was smiling with a constant bright,

CREME DE MENTHE 71

amused, cold light in his eyes, leaning a little protectively
towards the Pussum, who was very handsome, and soft,
unfolded like some red lotus in dreadful flowering naked-
ness, vainglorious now, flushed with wine and with the
excitement of men. Halliday looked foolish. One glass of
wine was enough to make him drunk and giggling. Yet
there was always a pleasant, warm naiveté about him, that
made him attractive.

‘I’m not afwaid of anything except black-beetles,”’ said
the Pussum, looking up suddenly and staring with her black
eyes, on which there seemed an unseeing film of flame, fully
upon Gerald. He laughed dangerously, from the blood.
Her childish speech caressed his nerves, and her burning,
filmed eyes, turned now full upon him, oblivious of all her
antecedents, gave him a sort of licence.

‘*1’m not,” she protested. ‘* I’m not afraid of other
things. But black-beetles—ugh ! ’? she shuddered convul-
sively, as if the very thought were too much to bear.

** Do you mean,” said Gerald, with the punctiliousness
~ of a man who has been drinking, ‘‘ that you are afraid of
the sight’ of a black-beetle, or you are afraid of a black-
beetle biting you, or doing you some harm?”

** Do they bite?’ cried the girl.

** How perfectly loathsome! ’? exclaimed Halliday.

**T don’t know,’’ replied Gerald, looking round the
table. ‘* Do black-beetles bite? But that isn’t the point.
Are you afraid of their biting, or is it a metaphysical anti-
pathy??? .

The girl was looking full upon him all the time with
inchoate eyes. .

‘¢ Oh, I think they’re beastly, they’re horrid,”’ she cried.
** Tf I see one, it gives me the creeps all over. If one were
to crawl on me, I’m sure I should die—I’m sure I should.”’

** I hope not,’? whispered the young Russian.

** I’m sure I should, Maxim,’’ she asseverated.

‘Then one won’t crawl on you,” said Gerald, smiling
and knowing. In some strange way he understood her.

** It’s metaphysical, as Gerald says,’’ Birkin stated.

There was a little pause of uneasiness. .

** And are you afraid of nothing else, Pussum?’’ asked
the young Russian, in his quick, hushed, elegant manner.

** Not weally,’’ she said. ‘* I am afwaid of some things,
but not weally the same. I’m not afwaid of blood.”

7a WOMEN IN LOVE

** Not afwaid of blood! ”? exclaimed a young man with
a thick, pale, jeering face, who had just come to the table
and was drinking whisky.

The Pussum turned on him a sulky look of dislike, low
and ugly.

** Aren’t you really afraid of blud?’’ the other persisted,
a sneer all over his face.

** No, I’m not,’’ she retorted.

6 Why, have you ever seen blood, except in a dentist’s
spittoon ?’’ jeered the young man.

*“*I wasn’t speaking to you,” she replied rather
superbly.

** You can answer me, can’t you?”’ he said.

For reply, she suddenly jabbed a knife across his thick,
pale hand. He started up with a vulgar curse.

** Show’s what you are,”’ said the Pussum in contempt.

** Curse you,” said the young man, standing by the table
and looking down at her with acrid malevolence.

** Stop that,’’ said Gerald, in quick, instinctive command.

The young man stood looking down at her with sardonic
contempt, a cowed, self-conscious look on his thick, pale
face. The blood began to flow from his hand.

** Oh, how horrible, take it away! ’’ squealed Halliday,
turning green and averting his face. }

** D’you feel ill ?’? asked the sardonic young man, in some
concern. ‘* Do you feel ill, Julius? Garn, it’s nothing,
man, don’t give her the pleasure of letting her think she’s
performed a feat—don’t give her the satisfaction, man—it’s _
just what she wants.”’

** Oh! ” squealed Halliday.

** He’s going to cat, Maxim,”’ said the: Pussum warningly.
The suave young Russian rose and took Halliday by the
arm, leading him away. Birkin, white and diminished,
looked on as if he were displeased. The wounded, sardonic
young man moved away, ignoring his bleeding hand in the
most conspicuous fashion.

** He’s an awful coward, really,’? said the Pussum to
Gerald. ‘* He’s got. such an influence over J ulius.’

** Who is he ?”? asked Gerald. |

** He’s a Jew, really. I can’t bear him.”’

** Well, he’s quite unimportant. But what’s wrong with —
Halliday ?’’

** Julius’s the most awful coward you’ve ever seen,”’ she

Vag cae me
i, Bo iota
ag es

z e.

CREME DE MENTHE 73

‘eried. “He always faints if I lift a knife—he’s tewwified

- of me.’’

** H’m! ” said Gerald.

** They’re all afwaid of me,’’ she said. ‘* Only the Jew
thinks he’s going to show his courage. But he’s the biggest
coward of them all, really, because he’s afwaid what people
will think about him—and Julius doesn’t care about
that.”’

‘© They’ve a lot of valour between them,”’ said Gerald
good-humouredly.

The Pussum looked at him with a slow, slow smile. She
was very handsome, flushed, and confident in dreadful
knowledge. Two little points of light glinted on Gerald’s
eyes. :

"ee Why do they call you Pussum, because you’re like a
cat ?’? he asked her.

** T expect so,”’ she said.

The smile grew more intense on his face.

** You are, rather ;—or a young, female panther.”’

** Oh God, Gerald! ”’ said Birkin, in some disgust.

They both looked uneasily at Birkin.

** You’re silent to-night, Wupert,’’ she said to him, with

a slight insolence, being safe with the other man.

Halliday was coming back, looking forlorn and sick.

** Pussum,’’ he said, *‘ I wish you wouldn’t do these
_ things—Oh!’’ He sank in his chair with a groan.

- ** You’d better go home,” she said to him.

** I will go home,’’ he said. ‘* But won’t you all come
along. Won’t you come round to the flat?’? he said to
Gerald. ‘* I should be so glad if you would. Do—that’ll
be splendid. I say??? He looked round for a waiter.
** Get me a taxi.’’ Then he groaned again. ‘* Oh I do
feel—perfectly ghastly! Pussum, you see what you do to
me.’’

*¢ Then why are you such an idiot ?”’ she said with sullen
calm.
~ © But I’m not an idiot! Oh, how awful! Do come,
everybody, it will be so splendid. Pussum, you are coming.
What? Oh but you must come, yes, you must. What?
Oh, my dear girl, don’t make a fuss now, I feel perfectly —
Oh, it’s so ghastly — Ho!—er! Oh!” .

** You know you can’t drink,”’ she said to him, coldly.

** I tell you it isn’t drink—it’s your disgusting behaviour,

wee)

SEAN PUNE RC NREL ON eee APEC OS AE MTD aetayC eg TRTAA Four ve Wh baa A
or) Pas LNG AE, aed ns ali EAN ak ea

74 WOMEN IN LOVE

Pussum, it’s nothing else. Oh, how awful! Libidnikov,
do let us go.”’

** He’s only drunk one glass—only one glass,’’ came the
rapid, hushed voice of the young Russian.

They all moved off to the door. The girl kept near to
Gerald, and seemed to be at one in her motion with him.
He was aware of this, and filled with demon-satisfaction
that his motion held good for two. He held her in the
hollow of his will, and she was soft, secret, invisible in her
stirring there.

They crowded five of them into the taxi-cab. Halliday
lurched in first, and dropped into his seat against the other
window. Then the Pussum took her place, and Gerald sat
next to her. They heard the young Russian giving orders
to the driver, then they were all seated in the dark, crowded
close together, Halliday groaning and leaning out of the
window. They felt the swift, muffled motion of the
car.

The Pussum sat near to Gerald, and she seemed to become
soft, subtly to infuse herself into his bones, as if she were
passing into him in a black, electric flow. ‘Her being suf-
fused into his veins like a magnetic darkness, and concen-
trated at the base of his spine like a fearful source of power.
Meanwhile her voice sounded out reedy and nonchalant, as
she talked indifferently with Birkin and with Maxim. Be-
tween her and Gerald was this silence and this black, elec-
tric comprehension in the darkness. Then she found his
hand, and grasped it in her own firm, small clasp. It was
so utterly dark, and yet such a naked statement, that rapid
vibrations ran through his blood and over his brain, he was
no longer responsible. Still her voice rang on like a bell,
tinged with a tone of mockery. And as she swung her head,
her fine mane of hair just swept his face, and all his nerves
were on fire, as with a subile friction of electricity. But
the great centre of his force held steady, a magnificent pride
to him, at the base of his spine.

They arrived at a large block of buildings, went up in a
lift, and presently a door was being opened for them by a
Hindu. Gerald looked in surprise, wondering if he were a
gentleman, one of the Hindus down from Oxford, perhaps.
But no, he was the man-servant.

** Make tea, Hasan,”’ said Halliday.

‘* There is a room for me?”’ said Birkin.

CREME DE MENTHE 75

To both of which questions the man grinned, and mur-
mured.

He made Gerald uncertain, because, being tall and slender
and reticent, he looked like a gentleman.

** Who is your servant ?’’ he asked of Halliday. ‘* He
looks a swell.”

** Oh yes—that’s because he’s dressed in another man’s
clothes. He’s anything but a swell, really. We found him
‘in the road, starving. So I took him here, and another man
_ gave him clothes. He’s anything but what he seems to be—

his only advantage is that he can’t speak English and can’t
understand it, so he’s perfectly safe.”’

** He’s very dirty,’’ said the young Russian swiftly and
silently.

Directly, the man appeared in the doorway.

** What is it ?”’ said Halliday.

The Hindu grinned, and murmured shyly :

** Want to speak to master.”

Gerald watched curiously. The fellow in the doorway
was good-looking and clean-limbed, his bearing was calm,
he looked elegant, aristocratic. Yet he was half a savage,
grinning foolishly. Halliday went out into the corridor to
_ speak with him.

** What ?”’? they heard his voice. ‘* What? What do
you say? Tell me again. What? Want money? Want
more money? But what do you want money for?’’
There was the confused sound of the Hindu’s talking, then
Halliday appeared in the room, smiling also foolishly, and
saying :

** He says he wants money to buy underclothing. Can
anybody lend me a shilling? Oh thanks, a shilling will do
to buy all the underclothes he wants.’? He took the money
from Gerald and went out into the passage again, where
they heard him saying, ‘‘ You can’t want more money, you
had three and six yesterday. You mustn’t ask for any
more. Bring the tea in quickly.’’

Gerald looked round the room. It was an ordinary Lon-
don sitting-room in a flat, evidently taken furnished, rather
common and ugly. But there were several negro statues,
wood-carvings from West Africa, strange and disturbing,
the carved negroes looked almost like the foetus of a human
being. One was a woman sitting naked in a strange pos-
ture, and looking tortured, her abdomen stuck out. The

Ce Se 1 eee oe ee Fi oat Sa +i) -) Yad eo a wy © ’ i aes?
‘s ws Ah Uiisparas oes be Sees S| ites sepa LL ataesty i fat x
F4: ee \ De be oe Pir es Nl A wees
/ ; \ Bath Ke uae. ae | see bet y. te Wey

a_i
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PS aoe la fe be
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76 WOMEN IN LOVE

young Russian explained that she was sitting in child-birth, ©
clutching the ends of the band that hung from her neck, one
in each hand, so that she could bear down, and help labour.
The strange, transfixed, rudimentary face of the woman —
again reminded Gerald of a foetus, it was also rather won-
derful, conveying the suggestion of the extreme of physical
sensation, beyond the limits of mental consciousness.

** Aren’t they rather obscene ?”’ he asked, disapproving.

** I don’t know,”’ murmured the other rapidly. ‘‘ I have
never defined the obscene. I think they are very good.”

Gerald turned away. There were one or two new pictures —
in the room, in the Futurist manner; there was a large
piano. And these, with some ordinary London lodging-
house furniture of the better sort, completed the whole.

The Pussum had taken off her hat and coat, and was
seated on the sofa. She was evidently quite at home in the
house, but uncertain, suspended. She did not quite know
her position. Her alliance for the time being was with ©
Gerald, and she did not know how far this was admitted by —
any of the men. She was considering how she should carry —
off the situation. She was determined to have her ex- |
perience. Now, at this eleventh hour, she was not to be
baulked. Her face was flushed as with battle, her eye was ©
brooding but inevitable.

The man came in with tea and a bottle of Kiimmel. He —
set the tray on a little table before the couch.

** Pussum,”’ said Halliday, ** pour out the tea.”’

She did not move.

** Won’t you do it?’? Halliday repeated, in a state of
nervous apprehension. 1

** I’ve not come back here as it was before,’’ she said. ©
** T only came because the others wanted me to, not for your
sake.”’

** My dear Pussum, you know you are your own mistress.
I don’t want you to do anything but use the flat for your
own convenience—you know it, I’ve told you so many
times.”’

She did not reply, but silently, reservedly reached for the
tea-pot. They all sat round and drank tea. Gerald could
feel the electric connection between him and her so strongly,
as she sat there quiet and withheld, that another set of con-
ditions altogether had come to pass. Her silence and her ~
immutability perplexed him. How was he going to come to

re

UT oc Re Ty o> AIL Siete hah WD ah aad
tor EM a ga ae aT
; SE sae i te RUT SALE cy ; Mia ceqit |

ss CREME DE MENTHE 77

her? And yet he felt it quite inevitable. He trusted com-

_ pletely to the current that held them. His perplexity was

_ only superficial, new conditions reigned, the old were sur-

: passed ; here one did as one was possessed to do, no matter

_ what it was. | |

: Birkin rose. It was nearly one o’clock. |

‘“< I’m going to bed,”’ he said. ‘* Gerald, [ll ring you up

in the morning at your place—or you ring me up here.”’

** Right,’’ said Gerald, and Birkin went out.

When he was well gone, Halliday said in a stimulated

voice, to Gerald :

** T say, won’t you stay here—oh do! ”’

-* You can’t put everybody up,”’ said Gerald.

| ‘* Oh but I can, perfectly—there are three more beds be-

sides mine—do stay, won’t you. Everything is quite
ready—there is always somebody here—I always put people
up—lI love having the house crowded.”’

‘¢ But there are only two rooms,”’ said the Pussum, in a
cold, hostile voice, ‘*‘ now Rupert’s here.”’

_ ** J know there are only two rooms,”’ said Halliday, in
his odd, high way of speaking. ‘* But what does that
matter ?”’

He was smiling rather foolishly, and he spoke eagerly,
with an insinuating determination.

** Julius and I will share one room,’’ said the Russian in
his discreet, precise voice. Halliday and he were friends
since Eton. |

| «* It?s very simple,’’ said Gerald, rising and pressing back

his arms, stretching himself. Then he went again to look at
one of the pictures. Every one of his limbs was turgid with

- electric force, and his back was tense like a tiger’s, with
slumbering fire. He was very proud.

The Pussum rose. She gave a black look at Halliday,
black and deadly, which brought the rather foolish, pleased
smile to that young man’s face. Then she went out of the
room, with a cold Good-night to them all generally.

. There was a brief interval, they heard a door close, then
Maxim said, in his refined voice :

‘¢ That’s all right.”’

He looked significantly at Gerald,.and said again, with a
silent nod : 7

** That’s all right—you’re all right.’

Gerald looked at the smooth, ruddy, comely face, and at

SSeS

Cs bic Na aio ae a BY
DbNart Mint ee de mean

Oras a Rae Oe Bid ii Wee ers

78 “WOMEN IN LOVE

the strange, significant eyes, and it seemed as if the voice of —
the young Russian, so small and perfect, sounded in the
blood rather than in the air.

** I’m all right then,’’ said Gerald.

“© Yes! Yes! You’re all right,’ said the Russian.

Halliday continued to smile, and to say nothing.

Suddenly the Pussum appeared again in the door, her
small, childish face looking sullen and vindictive.

“«T know you want to catch me out,’’ came her cold,
rather resonant voice. ‘* But I don’t care, I don’t care how
much you catch me out.”’

She turned and was gone again. She had been wearing a
loose dressing-gown of purple silk, tied round her waist. She
looked so small and childish and vulnerable, almost pitiful. |
And yet the black looks of her eyes made Gerald feel
drowned in some potent darkness that almost frightened
him.

The men lit another cigarette and talked casually.

CHAP: VII. FETISH

In the morning Gerald woke late. He had slept heavily.
Pussum was still asleep, sleeping childishly and pathetically.

_ There was something small and curled up and defenceless

about her, that roused an unsatisfied flame of passion in the
young man’s blood, a devouring avid pity. He looked at

_. her again. But it would be too cruel to wake her. He sub-

dued himself, and went away.

Hearing voices coming from’the sitting-room, Halliday
talking to Libidnikov, he went to the door and glanced in.
He had on a silk wrap of a beautiful bluish colour, with
an amethyst hem.

To his surprise he saw the two young men by the fire,
stark naked. Halliday looked up, rather pleased.

** Good-morning,’? he said. ‘* Oh—did you want
towels???’ And stark naked he went out into the hall, strid-
ing a strange, white figure between the unliving furniture.
He came back with the towels, and took his former position,
crouching seated before the fire on the fender.

** Don’t you love to feel the fire on your skin ?”’ he said.

** It is rather pleasant,’ said Gerald.

** How perfectly splendid it must be to be in a climate
where one could do without clothing altogether,’’ said
Halliday. /

** Yes,”’ said Gerald, ‘‘ if there weren’t so many things
that sting and bite.”’

** That’s a disadvantage,’ murmured Maxim.

Gerald looked at him, and with a slight revulsion saw the
human animal, golden skinned and bare, somehow humiliat-
ing. Halliday was different. He had a rather heavy,
slack, broken beauty, white and firm. He-was like a Christ
in a Pieta. The animal was not there at all, only the heavy,
broken beauty. And Gerald realised how Halliday’s eyes
were beautiful too, so blue and warm and confused, broken
also in their expression. The fireglow fell on his —
heavy, rather bowed shoulders, he sat slackly crouched
on the fender, his face was uplifted, weak, perhaps
slightly disintegrate, and yet with a moving beauty of its
own.

79

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soe “WOMEN IN LOVE ie

‘* Of course,’”’ said Maxim, ‘* you’ve been in hot countries
where the people go about naked.”’

** Oh really ! ’? exclaimed Halliday. ‘* Where ?’’

** South America—Amazon,”’ said Gerald.

** Oh but how perfectly splendid! It’s one of the things
I want most to do—to live from day to day without ever
putting on any sort of clothing whatever. If I could do
that, I should feel I had lived.’’

** But why ?”’ said Gerald. ‘‘ I can’t see that it makes so
much difference.”’

** Oh, I think it would be perfectly splendid. I’m sure ~

life would be entirely another thing—entirely differeat, and
perfectly wonderful.”’

** But why ?”’ asked Gerald. ‘* Why should it ?’’

** Oh—one would feel things instead of merely looking at
them. I should feel the air move against me, and feel the
things I touched, instead of having only to look at them.
I’m sure life is all wrong because it has become much too
visual—-we can neither hear nor feel nor understand, we can
only see. I’m sure that is entirely wrong.”

** Yes, that is true, that is true,’”’ said the Russian.

Gerald glanced at him, and saw him, his suave, golden
coloured body with the black hair growing fine and freely,
like tendrils, and his limbs like smooth plant-stems. He
was so healthy and well-made, why did he make one
ashamed, why did one feel repelled? Why should Gerald
even dislike it, why did it seem to him to detract from his
own dignity. Was that all a human being amounted to?
So uninspired ! thought Gerald.

Birkin suddenly appeared in the doorway, in white
pyjamas and wet hair, and a towel over his arm. He was
aloof and white, and somehow evanescent.

** There’s the bath-room now, if you want it,’’ he said
generally, and was going away again, when Gerald called :

** IT say, Rupert! ”

** What??? The single white figure appeared again, a
presence in the room. |

** What do you think of that figure there? I want to
know,’’ Gerald asked.

Birkin, white and strangely ghostly, went over to the
carved figure of the negro woman in labour. Her nude,
protuberant body crouched in a strange, clutching posture,
her hands gripping the ends of the band, above her breast.

FETISH 81

** It is art,’’ said Birkin.

** Very beautiful, it’s very beautiful,’’ said the Russian.
They all drew near to look. Gerald looked at the group
of men, the Russian golden and like a water-plant,
Halliday tall and heavily, brokenly beautiful, Birkin very
white and indefinite, not to be assigned, as he looked closely
at the carven woman. Strangely elated, Gerald also lifted
his eyes to the face of the wooden figure. And his heart
contracted.

He saw vividly with his spirit the grey, forward-stretch-
ing face of the negro woman, African and tense, abstracted
in utter physical stress. It was a terrible face, void, peaked,
abstracted almost into meaninglessness by the weight of sen-
sation beneath. He saw the Pussum in it. As in a dream,
he knew her.
_ © Why is it art??? Gerald asked, shocked, resentful.

** It conveys a complete truth,”’ said Birkin. ‘* It con-
tains the whole truth of that state, whatever you feel about
mts?

** But you can’t call it high art,’’ said Gerald.

** High! There are centuries and hundreds of centuries
of development in a straight line, behind that carving; it
is an awful pitch of culture, of a definite sort.”’

** What culture ?”’ Gerald asked, in opposition. He hated
the sheer African thing.

** Pure culture in sensation, culture in the physical con-
sciousness, really ultimate physical consciousness, mindless,
utterly sensual. It is so sensual as to be final,
supreme.’

But Gerald resented it. He wanted to keep certain illu-
sions, certain ideas like clothing.

** You like the wrong things, Rupert,’’ he said, ‘* things
against yourself.’’

** Oh, I know, this isn’t everything,”’ Birkin replied, mov-
‘ing away.

- When Gerald went back to his room from the bath, he also
carried his clothes. He was so conventional at home, that
when he was really away, and on the loose, as now, he
enjoyed nothing so much as full outrageousness. So
he strode with his blue silk wrap over his arm and felt
defiant.

The Pussum lay in her bed, motionless, her round, dark
eyes like black, unhappy pools. He could only see the

F

Ay Rae ciley

82 WOMEN IN LOVE

black, bottomless pools of her eyes. Perhaps she suffered.
The sensation of her inchoate suffering roused the old sharp
flame in him, a mordant pity, a passion almost of cruelty.

** ‘You are awake now,”’’ he said to her.

** What time is it ?’? came her muted voice.

She seemed to flow back, almost like liquid, from his
approach, to sink helplessly away from him. Her inchoate
look of a violated slave, whose fulfilment lies in her further
and further violation, made his nerves quiver with acutely
‘desirable sensation. After all, his was the only will, she
was the passive substance of his will. He tingled with the
subtle, biting sensation. And then he knew, he must go
away from her, there must be pure separation between them.

It was a quiet and ordinary breakfast, the four men all
looking very clean and bathed. Gerald and the Russian
were both correct and comme il faut in appearance and man-
ner, Birkin was gaunt and sick, and looked a failure in his
attempt to be a properly dressed man, like Gerald and
Maxim. Halliday wore tweeds and a green flannel shirt,
and a rag of a tie, which was just right for him. The Hindu
brought in a great deal of soft toast, and looked exactly the
same as he had looked the night before, statically the same.

At the end of the breakfast the Pussum appeared, in a
purple silk wrap with a shimmering sash. She had re-
covered herself somewhat, but was mute and lifeless still.
It was a torment to her when anybody spoke to her. Her
face was like a small, fine mask, sinister too, masked with
unwilling suffering. It was almost midday. Gerald rose
and went away to his business, glad to get out. But he had
not finished. He was coming back again at evening, they
were all dining together, and he had booked seats for the
party, excepting Birkin, at a music-hall.

At night they came back to the flat very late again, again
flushed with drink. Again the man-servant—who invari-
ably disappeared between the hours of ten and twelve at
night—came in silently and inscrutably with tea, bending
in a slow, strange, leopard-like fashion to put the tray
softly on the table. His face was immutable, aristocratic-
looking, tinged slightly with grey under the skin; he was
young and good-looking. But Birkin felt a slight sickness,
looking at him, and feeling the slight greyness as an ash or
a corruption, in the aristocratic inscrutability of expression
a nauseating, bestial stupidity.

FETISH 83

Again they talked cordially and rousedly together. But
already a certain friability was coming over the party,
Birkin was mad with irritation, Halliday was turning in an
insane hatred against Gerald, the Pussum was becoming

hard and cold, like a flint knife, and Halliday was laying
- himself out to her. And her intention, ultimately, was to
capture Halliday, to have complete power over him.

In the morning they all stalked and lounged about again.
But Gerald could feel a strange hostility to himself, in the
air. It roused his obstinacy, and he stood up against it.

He hung on for two more days. The result was a nasty and
insane scene with Halliday on the fourth evening. Halliday
turned with absurd animosity upon Gerald, in the café.
There was a row. Gerald was on the point of knocking-in
Halliday’s face ; when he was filled with sudden disgust and
indifference, and he went away, leaving Halliday in a foolish
state of gloating triumph, the Pussum hard and established,
and Maxim standing clear. Birkin was absent, he had gone
out of town again.

Gerald was piqued because he had left without giving the ©
Pussum money. It was true, she did not care whether he
gave her money or not, and he knew it. But she would
have been glad of ten pounds, and he would have been very
glad to give them to her. Now he felt in a false position.
He went away chewing his lips to get at the ends of his short
clipped moustache. He knew the Pussum was merely glad
to be rid of him. She had got her Halliday whom she
wanted. She wanted him completely in her power. Then
she would marry him. She wanted to marry him. She
had set her will on marrying Halliday. She never wanted
to hear of Gerald again; unless, perhaps, she were in diffi-
culty ; because after all, Gerald was what she called a man,
and these others, Halliday, Libidnikov, Birkin, the whole
Bohemian set, they were only half men. But it was half
men she could deal with. She felt sure of herself with
them. The real men, like Gerald, put her in her place too

much. :
_ $till, she respected Gerald, she really respected him.
She had managed to get his address, so that she could appeal
to him in time of distress. She knew he wanted to give her
money. She would perhaps write to him on that inevitable
rainy day.

ist, Reet & Rutten ad 5 Wak Tidas Oi gr i asi t elie s wh be Re Obs at UE mt ir ee is LS Bel lc on is od Mi
Ae : oh Sy ries betas

CHAP: VIII BREADALBY

BREADALBY was a Georgian house with Corinthian pillars,

standing among the softer, greener hills of Derbyshire, not

far from Cromford. In front, it looked over a lawn, over a

few trees, down to a string of fish-ponds in the hollow of the —

silent park. At the back were trees, among which were to

be found the stables, and the big kitchen garden, behind |

which was a wood.

It was a very quiet place, some miles from the high-road,
back from the Derwent Valley, outside the show scenery.
Silent and forsaken, the golden stucco showed between the
trees, the house-front looked down the park, unchanged and
unchanging.

Of late, however, Hermione had lived a good deal at the
house. She had turned away from London, away from
Oxford, towards the silence of the country. Her father was
mostly absent, abroad, she was either alone in the house,
with her visitors, of whom there were always several, or she

had with her her brother, a bachelor, and a Liberal member

of Parliament. He always came down when the House was
not sitting, seemed always to be present in Breadalby,

although he was most conscientious in his attendance to

duty.
The summer was just coming in when Ursula and Gudrun

went to stay the second time with Hermione. Coming —

along in the car, after they had entered the park, they
looked across the dip, where the fish-ponds lay in silence,
at the pillared front of the house, sunny and small like an
English drawing of the old school, on the brow of the green

hill, against the trees. There were small figures on the

green lawn, women in lavender and yellow moving to the
shade of the enormous, beautifully balanced cedar tree.

** Isn’t it complete! ’? said Gudrun. ‘* It is as final as
an old aquatint.’’ She spoke with some resentment in her
voice, as if she were captivated unwillingly, as if she must
admire against her will. |

** Do you love it ?’’ asked Ursula.

** T don’t love it, but in its way, I think it is quite eom-
plete.”’

84

Ne Ps
a

TEAM MAL th, te Ne
SC Ag Vy ea fot hn LCN
nf Fie f

BREADALBY 85

The motor-car ran down the hill and up again in one
breath, and they were curving to the side door. A parlour-
maid appeared, and then Hermione, coming forward with
her pale face lifted, and her hands outstretched, advancing
straight to the new-comers, her voice singing :

** Here you are—I’m so glad to see you— ”’ she kissed
Gudrun—* so glad to see you— ”’ she kissed Ursula and re-
mained with her arm round her. ‘* Are you very tired?’

** Not at all tired,’’ said Ursula.

** Are you tired, Gudrun ?”’

** Not at all, thanks,’’ said Gudrun.

** No— ”’ drawled Hermione. And she stood and looked
at them. The two girls were embarrassed because she
would not move into the house, but must have her
little scene of welcome there on the path. The servants
waited.

** Come in,”’ said Hermione at last, having fully taken in
the pair of them. Gudrun was the more beautiful and
attractive, she had decided again, Ursula was more physical,
more womanly. She admired Gudrun’s dress more. It
was of green poplin, with a loose coat above it, of broad,
dark-green and dark-brown stripes. The hat was of a pale,
greenish straw, the colour of new hay, and it had a plaited
ribbon of black and orange, the stockings were dark green,
the shoes black. It was a good get-up, at once fashionable
and individual. Ursula, in dark blue, was more ordinary,
though she also looked well.

Hermione herself wore a dress of prune-coloured silk, with
coral beads and coral coloured stockings. But her dress
was both shabby and soiled, even rather dirty.

** You would like to see your rooms now, wouldn’t you!
Yes. We will go up now, shall we ?’’

Ursula was glad when she could be left alone in her room.
Hermione lingered so long, made such a stress on one. She
stood so near to one, pressing herself near upon one, in a
way that was most embarrassing and oppressive. She
seemed to hinder one’s workings.

Lunch was served on the lawn, under the great tree,
whose thick, blackish boughs came down close to the grass.
There were present a young Italian woman, slight and.
fashionable, a young, athletic-looking Miss Bradley, a
learned, dry Baronet of fifty, who was always making
witticisms and laughing at them heartily in a harsh, horse-

* ries schist

86 WOMEN IN LOVE

laugh, there was Rupert Birkin, and then a woman secre-
tary, a Fraulein Marz, young and slim and pretty.

The food was very good, that was one thing. Gudrun,
critical of everything, gave it her full approval. | Ursula
loved the situation, the white table by the cedar tree, the
scent of new sunshine, the little vision of the leafy park,
with far-off deer feeding peacefully. There seemed a magic
circle drawn about the place, shutting out the present, en-
closing the delightful, precious past, trees and deer and
silence, like a dream.

But in spirit she was unhappy. The talk went on like a ~
rattle of small artillery, always slightly sententious, with a
sententiousness that was only emphasised by the continual —
crackling of a witticism, the continual spatter of verbal jest, —
designed to give a tone of flippancy to a stream of conver-
sation that was all critical and general, a canal of conversa-
tion rather than a stream.

The attitude was mental and very wearying. Only the
elderly sociologist, whose mental fibre was so tough as to be
insentient, seemed to be thoroughly happy. Birkin was
down in the mouth. Hermione appeared, with amazing per-
sistence, to wish to ridicule him and make him look igno-
minious in the eyes of everybody. And it was surprising
how she seemed to succeed, how helpless he seemed against
her. He looked completely insignificant. . Ursula and
Gudrun, both very unused, were mostly silent, listening to
the slow, rhapsodic sing-song of Hermione, or the verbal
sallies of Sir Joshua, or the prattle of Fraulein, or the re-
sponses of the other two women.

Luncheon was over, coffee was brought out on the grass,
the party left the table and sat about in lounge chairs, in the
shade or in the sunshine as they wished. Fraulein departed
into the house, Hermione took up her embroidery, the little
Contessa took a book, Miss Bradley was weaving a basket
out of fine grass, and there they all were on the lawn in the
early summer afternoon, working leisurely and spattering
with half-intellectual, deliberate talk.

Suddenly there was the sound of the brakes and the
shutting off of a motor-car.

** There’s Salsie! ’? sang Hermione, in her slow, amusing
sing-song. And laying down her work, she rose slowly, and
slowly passed over the lawn, round the bushes, out of
sight.

way ald te ee LG i a iris aha ee ia ae
ion ah Bee ba, r e ‘ « ¢ 4 : %

BREADALEY eRe

“© Who is it?” asked Gudrun.

*€ Mr Roddice—Miss Roddice’s brother—at least, I sup-
pose it’s he,’’ said Sir Joshua.

** Salsie, yes, it is her brother,’’ said the little Contessa,
lifting her head for a moment from her book, and speaking
as if to give information, in her slightly deepened, guttural
English.

They all waited. And then round the bushes came the
tall form of Alexander Roddice, striding romantically like a
Meredith hero who remembers Disraeli. He was cordial
with everybody, he was at once a host, with an easy, off-
hand hospitality that he had learned for Hermione’s friends.
He had just come down from London, from the House. At
once the atmosphere of the House of Commons made itself
felt over the lawn: the Home Secretary had said such and
such a thing, and he, Roddice, on the other hand, thought
such and such a thing, and had said so-and-so to the P.M.

Now Hermione came round the bushes with Gerald
Crich. He had come along with Alexander. Gerald was
presented to everybody, was kept by Hermione for a few
moments in full view, then he was led away, still by Her-
mione. He was evidently her guest of the moment.

_ There had been a split in the Cabinet; the minister for
Education had resigned owing to adverse criticism. This
started a conversation on education.

** Of course,’’ said Hermione, lifting her face like a
rhapsodist, ** there can be no reason, no excuse for educa-
tion, except the joy and beauty of knowledge in itself.’
She seemed to rumble and ruminate with subterranean
thoughts for a minute, then she proceeded: ‘* Vocational
education isn’t education, it is the close of education.’’

Gerald, on the brink of discussion, sniffed the air with de-
light and prepared for action.

** Not necessarily,’ he said. ‘* But isn’t education really
like gymnastics, isn’t the end of education the production
of a well-trained, vigorous, energetic mind ?’’

** Just as athletics produce a healthy body, ready for
anything,’’ cried Miss Bradley, in hearty accord.

Gudrun looked at her in silent loathing.

‘© Weli— ’’ rumbled Hermione, ‘* I don’t know. To me
the pleasure of knowing is so great, so wonderful—nothing
has meant so much to me in all life, as certain knowledge—
no, I am sure—nothing.”’

88 WOMEN IN LOVE.

*“' What knowledge, for example, Hermione: pe} asked

Alexander.

Hermione lifted her face and rumbled—

** M—m—m—lI don’t know. ... But one thing was ite
stars, when I really understood something about the stars.
One feels so uplifted, so unbounded......

Birkin looked at her in a white fury.

** What do you want to feel unbounded for?’ he said |

sarcastically. ‘* You don’t want to: be unbounded.”’
Hermione recoiled in offence.

** Yes, but one does have that limitless feeling,’ said |
Gerald. ‘* It’s like getting on top of the mountain and see-

ing the Pacific.’’

** Silent upon a peak in Dariayn,’? murmured the Italian, ©

lifting her face for a moment from her book.

** Not necessarily in Darien,’ said Gerald, while Ursula
began to laugh.

Hermione waited for the dust to settle, and then she
said, untouched :

** Yes, it is the greatest thing in life—to know. It is
really to be happy; to be free.”’

** Knowledge is, of course, liberty,”’ said Mattheson.

** In compressed tabloids,’”’ said Birkin, looking at the
dry, stiff little body of the Baronet. Immediately Gudrun
saw the famous sociologist as a flat bottle, containing tab-
loids of compressed liberty. That pleased her. Sir Joshua
was labelled and placed forever in her mind.

‘* What does that mean, Rupert ?’? sang Hermione, in a

calm snub.

** You can only have knowledge, strictly,’’ he replied,
** of things concluded, in the past. It’s like bottling the
liberty of last summer in the bottled gooseberries.”’

** Can one have knowledge only of the past ?’’ asked the
- Baronet, pointedly. ‘* Could we call our knowledge of. the
jaws of gravitation for instance, knowledge of the
past P”?

** Yes,’’ said Birkin.

** There is a most-beautiful thing in my book,’’ suddenly
piped the little Italian woman. ‘“* It says the man came to
the door and threw his eyes down the street.’’

There was a general laugh in the company. Miss Brad-
ley went and looked over the shoulder of the Contessa.

** See! ”’ said the Contessa.

‘BREADALBY cae

‘* Bazarov came to the door and threw his eyes hurriedly
_ down the street,”’ she read.

Again there was a loud laugh, the most startling of which
was the Baronet’s, which rattled out like a clatter of fall-
_ Ing stones.

** What is the book ?’’ asked Alexander, promptly.

‘‘ Fathers and Sons, by Turgenev,’’ said the little
foreigner, pronouncing every syllable distinctly. She
looked at the cover, to verify herself.

‘© An old American edition,’’ said Birkin.

‘“‘ Ha!—of course—translated from the French,’’ said
Alexander, with a fine declamatory voice. ‘* Bazarov
ouvra la porte et jeta les yeux dans la rue.”’

He looked brightly round the company.

‘© T wonder what the ‘ hurriedly ’ was,”’ said Ursula.

They all began to guess.

And then, to the amazement of everybody, the maid came
hurrying with a large tea-tray. The afternoon had passed
so swiftly.

After tea, they were all gathered for a walk.

** Would you like to come for a walk ?”? said Hermione to
each of them, one by one. And they all said yes, feeling
somehow like prisoners marshalled for exercise. Birkin
only refused.

** Will you come for a walk, Rupert ?”’

_ © No, Hermione.”’

** But are you sure?”’

** Quite sure.’’ There was a second’s hesitation.

** And why not?’’ sang Hermione’s question. It made
her blood run sharp, to be thwarted in even so trifling a
matter. She intended them all to walk with her in the
park.

** Because I don’t like trooping off in a gang,’’ he said.

Her voice rumbled in her throat for a moment. Then
she said, with a curious stray calm :

** Then we'll leave a little boy behind, if he’s sulky.’’

And she looked really gay, while she insulted him. But
it merely made him stiff.

She trailed off to the rest of the company, only turning
to wave her handkerchief to him, and to chuckle with
laughter, singing out :

** Good-bye, good-bye, little boy.”
** Good-bye, impudent hag,”’’ he said to himself,

fee ae ee MS ee ee Bee x
= Die is ¢ Wace i i ad Sayan ee

90 WOMEN IN LOVE

They all went through the park. Hermione wanted to
show them the wild daffodils on a little slope. ‘* This way,
this way,’’ sang her leisurely voice at intervals. And they
had all to come this way. The daffodils were pretty, but
- who could see them? Ursula was stiff all over with re-
sentment by this time, resentment of the whole atmosphere.
Gudrun, mocking and objective, watched and registered
everything.

They looked at the shy deer, and Hermione talked to the
stag, as if he too were a boy she wanted to wheedle and
fondle. He was male, so she must exert some kind of
power over him. They trailed home by the fish-ponds, and
Hermione told them about the quarrel of two male swans,
who had striven for the love of the one lady. She
chuckled and laughed as she told how the ousted lover had
sat with his head buried under his wing, on the gravel.

When they arrived back at the house, Hermione stood on
the lawn and sang out, in a strange, small, high voice that —
carried very far :

** Rupert! Rupert! ’’? The first syllable was high and
slow, the second dropped down. ‘* Roo-o-opert.”’ |

But there was no answer. A maid appeared.

‘* Where is Mr Birkin, Alice?’’ asked the mild straying
voice of Hermione. But under the straying voice, what a
persistent, almost insane will !

** T think he’s in his room, madam.”’

Ts her’? ,

Hermione went slowly up the stairs, along the corridor,
singing out in her high, small call :

** Ru-oo-pert ! Ru-oo-pert ! ”

‘She came to his door, and tapped, still crying:
** Roo-pert.”’ é

‘© Yes,’’ sounded his voice at last.

** What are you doing ?”’

The question was mild and curious.

There was no answer. Then he opened the door.

‘© We’ve come back,’’ said Hermione. ‘* The daffodils
are so beautiful.”’

‘* Yes,’ he said, ** I’ve seen them.”

She looked at him with her long, slow, impassive look,
along her cheeks. 7

‘* Have you?’’ she echoed. And she remained looking at
him. She was stimulated above all things by this conflict

BREADALBY 91

with him, when he was like a sulky boy, helpless, and she
had him safe at Breadalby. But underneath she knew the
split was coming, and her hatred of him was subconscious
and intense.

** What were you doing ?”’ she reiterated, in her mild, in-
different tone. He did not answer, and she made her way,
almost unconsciously into his room. He had taken a
Chinese drawing of geese from the boudoir, and was copy-
ing it, with much skill and vividness. —

** You are copying the drawing,”’ she said, standing near
the table, and looking down at his work. ‘* Yes. How
beautifully you do it! You like it very much, don’t you?”

** It’s a marvellous drawing,”’ he said.

**Isit? I’m so glad you like it, because I’ve always been
fond of it. The Chinese Ambassador gave it me.’’

** I know,”’ he said.

** But why do you copy it?’’ she asked, casual and sing-
song. ‘* Why not do something original ?’’

** IT want to know it,’’ he replied. ‘‘ One gets more of
China, copying this picture, than reading all the books.’’

** And what do you get ?”’

She was at once roused, she laid as it were violent hands
on him, to extract his secrets from him. She must know.
It was a dreadful tyranny, an obsession in her, to know all
he knew. For some time he was silent, hating to answer
her. Then, compelled, he began : |

** I know what centres they live from—what they per-
ceive and feel—the hot, stinging centrality of a goose in the
flux of cold water and mud—the curious bitter stinging heat
of a goose’s blood, entering their own blood like an inocula-
tion of corruptive fire—fire of the cold-burning mud—the
lotus mystery.”’

Hermione looked at him along,her narrow, pallid cheeks.
Her eyes were strange and drugged, heavy under their
heavy, drooping lids. Her thin bosom shrugged convul-
sively. He stared back at her, devilish and unchanging.
With another strange, sick convulsion, she turned away, as
if she were sick, could feel dissolution setting-in in her body.
For with her mind she was unable to attend to his words,
he caught her, as it were, beneath all her defences, and de-
stroyed her with some insidious occult potency.

** Yes,”’ she said, as if she did not know what she were
saying. ‘“* Yes,’’ and she swallowed, and tried to regain

92 WOMEN IN LOVE

her mind. But she could not, she was witless, decentralised.
Use all her will as she might, she could not recover. She
suffered the ghastliness of dissolution, broken and gone in
a horrible corruption. And he stood and looked at her un-
moved. She strayed out, pallid and preyed-upon like a
ghost, like one attacked by the tomb-influences which dog
us. And she was gone like a corpse, that has no presence,
no connection. He remained hard and vindictive.

Hermione came down to dinner strange and sepulchral,
her eyes heavy and full of sepulchral darkness, strength.
She had put on a dress of stiff old greenish brocade, that
fitted tight and made her look tall and rather terrible,
ghastly. In the gay light of the drawing-room she was un-
canny and oppressive. But seated in the half-light of the
dining-room, sitting stiffly before the shaded candles on the
table, she seemed a power, a presence. She listened and
attended with a drugged attention.

The party was gay and extravagant in appearance, every-
body had put on evening dress except Birkin and Joshua
Mattheson. The little Italian Contessa wore a dress of tissue.
of orange and gold and black velvet in soft wide stripes,
Gudrun was emerald green with strange net-work, Ursula
was in yellow with dull silver veiling, Miss Bradley was of
grey, crimson and jet, Fraulein Marz wore pale blue. It
gave Hermione a sudden convulsive sensation of pleasure,
to see these rich colours under the candle-light. She was
aware of the talk going on, ceaselessly, Joshua’s voice
dominating ; of the ceaseless pitter-patter of women’s light
laughter and responses; of the brilliant colours and the
white table and the shadow above and below; and she
seemed in a swoon of gratification, convulsed with pleasure,
and yet sick, like a revenant. She took very little part in
the conversation, yet she heard it all, it was all hers.

They all went together into the drawing-room, as if they
were one family, easily, without any attention to ceremony.
Fraulein handed the coffee, everybody smoked cigarettes, or
else long warden pipes of white clay, of which a sheaf was
provided.

‘* Will you smoke ?—cigarettes or pipe ?’’ asked Fraulein
prettily. There was a circle of people, Sir Joshua with his
eighteenth-century appearance, Gerald the amused, hand-
some young Englishman, Alexander tall and the handsome
politician, democratic and lucid, Hermione strange like a

MR eel a ree nS ee yaa Ye Ran eee en ae en PAN SE PO NL A ey ot Den ANY
aH yee By GN UML I eh te Weed MDa ee Las, 1 ing ;
Pea Hee eek, A . ma dy id tee TLS i i hie,
iM a here thee | ‘ j i

BREADALBY 93

long Cassandra, and the women lurid with colour, all duti-
_ fully smoking their long white pipes, and sitting in a half-
moon in the comfortable, soft-lighted drawing-room, round
the logs that flickered on the marble hearth.

The talk was very often political or sociological, and in-
teresting, curiously anarchistic. There was an accumula-
tion of powerful force in the room, powerful and destruc-
tive. Everything seemed to be thrown into the melting
pot, and it seemed to Ursula they were all witches, helping
the pot to bubble. There was an elation’and a satisfaction
m it all, but it was cruelly exhausting for the new-comers,
this ruthless mental pressure, this powerful, consuming, de-
structive mentality that emanated from Joshua and Her-
mione and Birkin and dominated the rest.

But a sickness, a fearful nausea gathered possession of
Hermione. There was a lull in the talk, as it was arrested
by her unconscious but all-powerful will.

** Salsie, won’t you play something?’’ said Hermione,
breaking off completely. ** Won’t somebody dance?
Gudrun, you will dance, won’t you? I wish you would.
Anche tu, Palestra, ballerai?—si, per piacere. You too,
Ursula.”’

Hermione rose and slowly pulled the gold-embroidered
band that hung by the mantel, clinging to it for a moment,

_- then releasing it suddenly. Like a priestess she looked, un-

conscious, sunk in a heavy half-trance.

A servant came, and soon reappeared with armfuls of silk
robes and shawls and scarves, mostly oriental, things that
Hermione, with her love for beautiful extravagant dress,
had collected gradually.

** The three women will dance together,” she said.

** What shall it be?’? asked Alexander, rising briskly.

** Vergini Delle Rocchette,’’ said the Contessa at once.

** They are so languid,” said Ursula.

** The three witches from Macbeth,’ suggested Fraulein
usefully. It was finally decided to do Naomi and Ruth
and Orpah. Ursula was Naomi, Gudrun was Ruth, the
Contessa was Orpah. The idea was to make a little ballet,
in the style of the Russian Ballet of Pavlova and Nijinsky.

The Contessa was ready first, Alexander went to the
piano, a space was cleared. Orpah, in beautiful oriental
clothes, began slowly to dance the death of her husband.
Then Ruth came, and they wept together, and lamented,

Ls WE a eet a) eee ee ee ee Ae =! Pap gaa ee iD, EV ms! ji
WAS | ny rel Tm ly ae eee aay
Lae ys ia? i ON ay aneeniy at Be a esa mee bs
Jus Cae ~ r an ores Ga Sr wt
? ‘ \ PRR LO ea es tan UN ig

94 WOMEN IN LOVE.

then Naomi came to comfort them. It was all done in
dumb show, the women danced their emotion in gesture
and motion. The little drama went on for a quarter of an
hour.

Ursula was beautiful as Naomi. All her men were dead,
it remained to her only to stand alone in indomitable asser-
tion, demanding nothing. Ruth, woman-loving, loved her.
Orpah, a vivid, sensational, subtle widow, would go back to
the former life, a repetition. The inter-play between the
women was real and rather frightening. It was strange to
see how Gudrun clung with heavy, desperate passion to
Ursula, yet smiled with subtle malevolence against her, how
Ursula accepted silently, unable to provide any more either
for herself or for the other, but dangerous and indomitable,
refuting her grief.

Hermione loved to watch. She could see the Contessa’s
rapid, stoat-like sensationalism, Gudrun’s ultimate but
treacherous cleaving to the woman in her sister, Ursula’s
dangerous helplessness, as if she were helplessly weighted,
and unreleased.

** That was very beautiful,’? everybody cried with one
accord. But Hermione writhed in her soul, knowing what
she could not know. She cried out for more dancing, and it
was her will that set the Contessa and Birkin moving mock-
ingly in Malbrouk.

Gerald was excited by the desperate cleaving of Gudrun to
Naomi. The essence of that female, subterranean reckless-
ness and mockery penetrated his blood. He could not for-
get Gudrun’s lifted, offered, cleaving, reckless, yet withal
mocking weight. And Birkin, watching like a hermit crab
from its hole, had seen the brilliant frustration and helpless-
ness of Ursula. She was rich, full of dangerous power. She
was like a strange unconscious bud of powerful womanhood.
He was unconsciously drawn to her. She was his future.

Alexander played some Hungarian music, and they all
danced, seized by the spirit. Gerald was marvellously
exhilarated at finding himself in motion, moving towards
Gudrun, dancing with feet that could not yet escape from
the waltz and the two-step, but feeling his force stir along
his limbs and‘his body, out of captivity. He did not know
yet how to dance their convulsive, rag-time sort of dancing,
but he knew how to begin. Birkin, when he could get free
from the weight of the people present, whom he disliked,

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BREADALBY 95

danced rapidly and with a real gaiety. And how Hermione

hated him for this irresponsible gaiety.

** Now I see,”’ cried the Contessa excitedly, watching his
purely gay motion, which he had all to himself. ‘‘ Mr Bir-
kin, he is a changer.”’

Hermione looked at her slowly, and shuddered, knowing
that only a foreigner could have seen and have said
this. )

** Cosa vuol’dire, Palestra ?’’ she asked, sing-song.

** Look,”’ said the Contessa, in Italian. ‘* He is not a

man, he is a chameleon, a creature of change.’

** He is not a man, he is treacherous, not one of us,” said
itself over in Hermione’s consciousness. And her soul
writhed in the black subjugation to him, because of his
power to escape, to exist, other than she did, because he
was not consistent, not a man, less than a man. She hated
him in a despair that shattered her and broke her down, so
that she suffered sheer dissolution like a corpse, and was
unconscious of everything save the horrible sickness of dis-
solution that was taking place within her, body and soul.

The house being full, Gerald was given the smaller room,
really the dressing-room, communicating with Birkin’s bed-
room. When they all took their candles and mounted the
stairs, where the lamps were burning subduedly, Hermione
captured Ursula and brought her into her own bedroom, to
talk to her. A sort of constraint came over Ursula in the
big, strange bedroom. Hermione seemed to be bearing
down on her, awful and inchoate, making some appeal.
They were looking at some Indian silk shirts, gorgeous and
sensual in themselves, their shape, their almost corrupt gor-
geousness. And Hermione came near, and her bosom
writhed, and Ursula was for a moment blank with panic.
And for a moment Hermione’s haggard eyes saw the fear
on the face of the other, there was again a sort of crash, a
crashing down. And Ursula picked up a shirt of rich red
and blue silk, made for a young princess of fourteen, and
was crying mechanically :

** Isn’t it wonderful—who would dare to put those two
strong colours together— ”’

Then Hermione’s maid entered silently and Ursula, over-
come with dread, escaped, carried away by powerful
impulse.

Birkin went straight to bed. He was feeling happy, and

96 “WOMEN IN LOVE

sleepy. Since he had danced he was happy. But Gerald
would talk to him. Gerald, in evening dress, sat on Bir-
kin’s bed when the other lay down, and must talk.

** Who are those two Brangwen’s ?’? Gerald asked.

** They live in Beldover.’’

** In Beldover! Who are they then?”

** Teachers in the Grammar School.’’

There was a pause.

** They are! ’? exclaimed Gerald at length. ‘* I thought
I had seen them before.’’

** It disappoints you ?”’ said Birkin.

** Disappoints me! No—but how is it Hermione has
them here ?’’.

** She knew Gudrun in London—that’s the younger one,
the one with the darker hair—she’s an artist—does sculpture
and modelling.”’

** She’s not a teacher in the Grammar School, then—only
the other ?”’

** Both—Gudrun art mistress, Ursula a class mistress.’

** And what’s the father ?’’

** Handicraft instructor in the schools.’’

** Really ! ” |

** Class-barriers are breaking down! ”’

Gerald was always uneasy under the slightly jeering tone
of the other.

** That their father is handicraft instructor in a school !
What does it matter to me??’’

Birkin laughed. Gerald looked at his face, as it lay there
laughing and bitter and indifferent on the pillow, and he
could not go away.

** I don’t suppose you will see very much more of Gud-
run, at least. She is a restless bird, she’ll be gone in a week
or two,”’ said Birkin.

** Where will she go ?’’

** London, Paris, Rome—heaven knows. I always expect
her to sheer off to Damascus or San Francisco; she’s a bird
of paradise. God knows what she’s got to do with Bel-
dover. It goes by contraries, like dreams.”’

Gerald pondered for a few moments.

** How do you know her so well?’ he asked.

** IT knew her in London,”’ he replied, ‘* in the Algernon
Strange set. She’ll know about Pussum and Libidnikov
and the rest—even if she doesn’t know them personally.

BREADALBY 97

_ She was never quite that set—more conventional, in a way.
_ |’ve known her for two years, I suppose.’’

** And she makes money, apart from her teaching ?’’
asked Gerald.

** Some—irregularly. She can sell her models. She has
a certain réclame.’’

** How much for ?’’

** A guinea, ten guineas.”’

** And are they good? What are they ?’’

** I think sometimes they are marvellously good. That is
hers, those two wagtails in Hermione’s boudoir—you’ve
seen them—they are carved in wood and painted.”’

** T thought it was savage carving again.”’

** No, hers. That’s what they are—animals and birds,
sometimes odd small people in everyday dress, really rather
wonderful when they come off. They have a sort of funni-
ness that is quite unconscious and subtle.’’

** She might be a well-known artist one day?’’ mused
Gerald. —

** She might. But I think she won’t. She drops her art
if anything else catches her. Her contrariness prevents her
taking it seriously—she must never be too serious, she feels
she might give herself away. And she won’t give herself
away—she’s always on the defensive. That’s what I can’t
stand about her type. By the way, how did things go off
with Pussum after I left you? I haven’t heard anything.”’

** Oh, rather disgusting. Halliday turned objectionable,
and I only just saved myself from jumping in his stomach,
in a real old-fashioned row.’’

Birkin was silent.

** Of course,’’ he said, ** Julius is somewhat insane. On
the one hand he’s had religious mania, and on the other, he
is fascinated by obscenity. Hither he is a pure servant,
washing the feet of Christ, or else he is making obscene
drawings of Jesus—action and reaction—and between the
two, nothing. He is really insane. He wants a pure lily,
another girl, with a baby face, on the one hand, and on the
other, he must have the Pussum, just to defile himself with
her.”’

** That’s what I can’t make out,’’ said Gerald. ‘* Does
he love her, the Pussum, or doesn’t he ?”’

** He neither does nor doesn’t. She is the harlot, the
actual harlot of adultery to him. And he’s got a craving to

G

Ie Se Miah tet tis

ial at

98 WOMEN IN LOVE

throw himself into the filth of her. Then he gets up and ~

calls on the name of the lily of purity, the baby-faced girl,
and so enjoys himself all round. It’s the old story—action
and reaction, and nothing between.’’

**T don’t know,” said Gerald, after a pause, ‘‘ that he
does insult the Pussum so very much. She strikes me as
being rather foul.’’

** But I thought you liked her,’ exclaimed Birkin. “I~
always felt fond of her. I never had anything to do with
her, personally, that’s true.”’

** T liked her all right, for a couple of days,” said Gerald.
** But a week of her would have turned me over. There’s
a certain smell about the skin of those women, that in the
end is sickening beyond words—even if you like it at first.”

** IT know,”’ said Birkin. Then he added, rather fretfully,
** But go to bed, Gerald. God knows what time it is.”’

Gerald looked at his watch, and at length rose off the bed,
and went to his room. But he returned in a few minutes,
in his shirt.

** One thing,’’ he said, seating himself on the bed again.
** We finished up rather stormily, and I never had time to
give her anything.”’

** Money ?”’ said Birkin. ‘* She’ll get what She wants
from Halliday or from one of her acquaintances.”

‘* But then,” said Gerald, ‘‘ I’d rather give her her dues
and settle the account.”’

** She doesn’t care.”’

** No, perhaps not. But one feels the account is left
open, and one would rather it were closed.”’

** Would you?” said Birkin. He was looking at the
white legs of Gerald, as the latter sat on the side of the bed
in his shirt. They were white-skinned, full, muscular legs,
handsome and decided. Yet they moved Birkin with a sort
of pathos, tenderness, as if they were childish.

** T think I’d rather close the account,’’ said Gerald, re-
peating himself vaguely.

** It doesn’t matter one way or another; *? said Birkin.

** You always say it doesn’t matter,”’ said Gerald, a little
puzzled, looking down at the face of the other man affec-
tionately.

‘* Neither does it,’’ said Birkin.

** But she was a decent sort, really— ”’

‘* Render unto Cesarina the things that are Cesarina’s,”’

BREADALBY 99

said Birkin, turning aside. It seemed to him Gerald was
talking for the sake of talking. ‘* Go away, it wearies me—
it’s too late at night,’’ he said.

** I wish you’d tell me something that did matter,”’ said
Gerald, looking down all the time at the face of the other
man, waiting for something. But Birkin turned his face
aside.

** All right then, go to sleep,”’ said Gerald, and he laid his

hand affectionately on the other man’s shoulder, and went

away.

In the morning when Gerald awoke and heard Birkin
move, he called out: *‘ I still think I ought to give the
Pussum ten pounds.”’

** Oh God! ”? said Birkin, ** don’t be so matter-of-fact.
Close the account in your own soul, if you like. It is there
you can’t close it.”’

** How do you know I can’t ?”’

** Knowing you.”’

Gerald meditated for some moments.

** It seems to me the right thing to do, you know, with
the Pussums, is to pay them.’

** And the right thing for mistresses: keep them. And
the right thing for wives: live under the same roof with
them. Integer vitae scelerisque purus— ”’ said Birkin.

** There’s no need to be nasty about it,’’ said Gerald.

** It bores me. I’m not interested in your peccadilloes.”’

** And I don’t care whether you are or not—I am.”’

The morning was again sunny. The maid had been in

_ and brought the water, and had drawn the curtains. Birkin,

————

sitting up in bed, looked lazily and pleasantly out on the
park, that was so green and deserted, romantic, belonging
to the past. He was thinking how lovely, how sure, how
formed, how final all the things of the past were—the lovely
accomplished past—this house, so still and golden, the park
slumbering its centuries of peace. And then, what a snare
and a delusion, this beauty of static things—what a horrible,
dead prison Breadalby really was, what an intolerable con-
finement, the peace! Yet it was better than the sordid
scrambling conflict of the present. If only one might create

_ the future after one’s own heart—for a little pure truth, a
little unflinching application of simple truth to life, the heart
cried out ceaselessly.

** I can’t see what you will leave me at all, to be inter-

Ems,
7 aS

100 WOMEN IN LOVE.

ested in,’’ came Gerald’s voice from the lower room.
** Neither the Pussums, nor the mines, nor anything else.”’

** You be interested in what you can, Gerald. Only I’m
not interested myself,”’ said Birkin.

** What am I to do at all, then??? came Gerald’s voice.

** What you like. What am I to do myself???

In the silence Birkin could feel Gerald musing. this fact.

** I’m blest if I know,’’ came the good-humoured answer.

** You see,”’ said Birkin, ** part of you wants the Pussum,
and nothing but the Pussum, part of you wants the mines,
the business, and nothing but the business—and there you
are—all in bits— ”’

** And part of me wants something else,’? said Gerald, in
a queer, quiet, real voice. |

** What ?”’ said Birkin, rather surprised.

** That’s what I hoped you could tell me,’’ said Gerald.

There was a silence for some time.

**T can’t tell you—I can’t find my own way, let alone
yours. You might marry,’’ Birkin replied.

** Who—the Pussum ?”’ asked Gerald.

** Perhaps,’’ said Birkin. And he rose and went to the
window.

‘* That is your panacea,’’ said Gerald. ‘‘ But you
haven’t even tried it on yourself yet, and you are sick
enough.”’ !

‘TI am,”’ said Birkin. ‘* Still, I shall come right.”’

** Through marriage P”’

** Yes,’ Birkin answered obstinately.

** And no,’* added Gerald. ‘* No, no, no, my boy.”’

There was a silence between them, and a strange tension
of hostility. They always kept a gap, a distance between
them, they wanted always to be free each of the other. Yet
there was a curious heart-straining towards each other.

** Salvator femininus,’’ said Gerald, satirically.

*¢ Why not?” said Birkin.

** No reason at all,’’ said Gerald, ** if it really works. But —
whom will you marry ?”’

‘* A woman,’’ said Birkin.

** Good,”’ said Gerald.

Birkin and Gerald were the last to come down to break-
fast. Hermione liked everybody to be early. She suffered
when she felt her day was diminished, she felt she had —
missed her life. She seemed to grip the hours by the throat, —

BREADALBY 101

to force her life from them. She was rather pale and
ghastly, as if left behind, in-‘the morning. Yet she had her

: power, her will was strangely pervasive. With the

entrance of the two young men a sudden tension
was felt.
She lifted her face, and said, in her amused sing-song :
‘© Good morning! Did you sleep well? I’m so glad.”
And she turned away, ignoring them. Birkin, who

knew her well, saw that she intended to discount his

existence.

** Will you take what you want from the sideboard ?”’
said Alexander, in a voice slightly suggesting disapproba-
tion. ‘* I hope the things aren’t cold. Ohno! Do you
mind putting out the flame under the chafing-dish, Rupert?
Thank you.”’

Even Alexander was rather authoritative where Hermione
was cool. He took his tone from her, inevitably. Birkin
sat down and looked at the table. He was so used to this
house, to this room, to this atmosphere, through years of
intimacy, and now he felt in complete opposition to it all, it
had nothing to do with him. How well he knew Hermione,
as she sat there, erect and silent and somewhat bemused,
and yet so potent, so powerful! He knew her statically, so
finally, that it was almost like a madness. It was difficult
to believe one was not mad, that one was not a figure in the
hall of kings in some Egyptian tomb, where the dead all sat .
immemorial and tremendous. How utterly he knew Joshua
Matheson, who was talking in his harsh, yet rather mincing
voice, endlessly, endlessly, always with a strong mentality
working, always interesting, and yet always known, every-
thing he said known beforehand, however novel it was, and
clever. Alexander the up-to-date host, so bloodlessly free-
and-easy, Fraulein so prettily chiming in just as she should,

the little Italian Countess taking notice of everybody, only

playing her little game, objective and cold, like a weasel!
watching everything, and extracting her own amusement,
never giving herself in the slightest; then Miss Bradley,
heavy and rather subservient, treated with cool, almost
amused contempt by Hermione, and therefore slighted by
everybody—how known it all was, like a game with the
figures set out, the same figures, the Queen of chess, the
knights, the pawns, the same now as they were hundreds of
years ago, the same figures moving round in one of the in-

102 WOMEN IN LOVE

numerable permutations that make up the game. But the
game is known, its going on is like a madness, it is so
exhausted.

There was Gerald, an amused look on his face; the game
pleased him. There was Gudrun, watching with steady,
large, hostile eyes ; the game fascinated her, and she loathed
it. There was Ursula, with a slightly startled look on her
face, as if she were hurt, and the pain were just outside her
consciousness.

Suddenly Birkin got up and went out.

** That’s enough,”’ he said to himself involuntarily.

Hermione knew his motion, though not in her conscious-
ness. She lifted her heavy eyes and saw him lapse suddenly
away, on a sudden, unknown tide, and the waves broke over
her. Only her indomitable will remained static and
mechanical, she sat at the table making her musing, stray
remarks. But the darkness had covered her, she was like a
ship that has gone down. It was finished for her too, she
was wrecked in the darkness. Yet the unfailing mechanism
of her will worked on, she had that activity.

** Shall we bathe this morning ?”’ she said, suddenly look-
ing at them all.

** Splendid,’’ said Joshua. ‘* It is a perfect morning.”’

*© Oh, it is beautiful,’’ said Fraulein.

** Yes, let us bathe,’’ said the Italian woman.

** We have no bathing suits,’’ said Gerald.

** Have mine,”’ said Alexander. ‘‘ I must go to church
and read the lessons. They expect me.”’ .

** Are you a Christian ?’’ asked the Italian Countess, with
sudden interest.

*“‘ No,”’ said Alexander. ‘‘ I’m not. But I believe in
keeping up the old institutions.”’ )

‘* They are so beautiful,’ said Fraulein daintily.

*¢ Oh, they are,”’ cried Miss Bradley.

They all trailed out on to the lawn. It was a sunny, soft
morning in early summer, when life ran in the world subtly,
like a reminiscence. The church bells were ringing a little
way off, not a cloud was in the sky, the swans were like
Jilies on the water below, the peacocks walked with long,
prancing steps across the shadow and into the sunshine of
the grass. One wanted to swoon into the by-gone perfec-
tion of it all.

‘* Good-bye,”’? called Alexander, waving his gloves

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: f
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BREADALBY ads

_ cheerily, and he disappeared behind the bushes, on his way
to church.

** Now,’’ said Hermione, ‘‘ shall we all bathe ?”’

** I won’t,’’ said Ursula.

~* You don’t want to?’? said Hermione, looking at her
slowly.

“© No. I don’t want to,’ said Ursula.

** Nor I,’’ said Gudrun.

‘© What about my suit?’ asked Gerald.

**T don’t know,’’ laughed Hermione, with an odd,
-- amused intonation. ‘* Will a handkerchief do—a _ large
handkerchief ?’’ |

** That will do,’’ said Gerald.

** Come along then,’’ sang Hermione.

The first to run across the lawn was the little Italian,
small and like a cat, her white legs twinkling as she went,
ducking slightly her head, that was tied in a gold silk ker-
chief. She tripped through the gate and down the grass,
and stood, like a tiny figure of ivory and bronze, at the
water’s edge, having dropped off her towelling, watching
the swans, which came up in surprise. Then out ran Miss
Bradley, like a large, soft plum in her dark-blue suit. Then
Gerald came, a scarlet silk kerchief round his loins, his
towels over his arms. He seemed to flaunt himself a little
in the sun, lingering and laughing, strolling easily, looking —
white but natural in his nakedness. Then came Sir Joshua,
in an overcoat, and lastly Hermione, striding with stiff grace
from out of a great mantle of purple silk, her head tied up in
purple and gold. Handsome was her stiff, long body, her
straight-stepping white legs, there was a static magnificence
about her as she let the cloak float loosely away from her
striding. She crossed the lawn like some strange memory,
and passed slowly and statelily towards the water.

There were three ponds, in terraces descending the valley,
large and smooth and beautiful, lying in the sun. The
water ran over a little stone wall, over small rocks, splash-
ing down from one pond to the level below. The swans
had gone out on to the opposite bank, the reeds smelled
sweet, a faint breeze touched the skin.

Gerald had dived in, after Sir Joshua, and had swum to
the end of the pond. There he climbed out and sat on the
wall. There was a dive, and the little Countess was swim-
ming like a rat, to join him, They both sat in the sun,

2, ROR = Me pe SUA con Dir en rEg tener ae bala
4 Woe Coe) irae ae, si

104 WOMEN IN LOVE

laughing and crossing their arms on their breasts. Sir
Joshua swam up to them, and stood near them, up to his
arm-pits in the water. Then Hermione and Miss Bradley —
swam over, and they sat in a row on the embankment.

** Aren’t they terrifying? Aren’t they really terrifying ?P”’
said Gudrun. ‘* Don’t they look saurian? They are just —
like great lizards. Did you ever see anything like Sir
Joshua? But really, Ursula, he belongs to the primeval
world, when great-lizards crawled about.’’

Gudrun looked in dismay on Sir Joshua, who stood up
to the breast in the water, his long, greyish hair washed
down into his eyes, his neck set into thick, crude shoulders.
He was talking to Miss Bradley, who, seated on the bank
above, plump and big and wet, looked as if she might roll
_and slither in the water almost like one of the slithering sea-
lions in the Zoo.

Ursula watched in silence. Gerald was laughing happily,
between Hermione and the Italian. He reminded her of
Dionysos, because his hair was really yellow, his figure so
full and laughing. Hermione, in her large, stiff, sinister
grace, leaned near him, frightening, as if she were not re-
sponsible for what she might do. He knew a certain dan-
ger in her, a convulsive madness. But he only laughed the
more, turning often to the little Countess, who was flashing
up her face at him.

They all dropped into the water, and were swimming to-
gether like a shoal of seals. Hermione was powerful and
unconscious in the water, large and slow and powerful,
Palestra was quick and silent as a water rat, Gerald wavered
and flickered, a white natural shadow. Then, one after the
other, they waded out, and went up to the house.

But Gerald lingered a moment to speak to Gudrun.

** You don’t like the water ?’’ he said.

She looked at him with a long, slow inscrutable look, as
he stood before her negligently, the water standing in beads
all over his skin.

** T like it very much,” she replied.

He paused, expecting some sort of explanation.

** And you swim ! he

** Yes, I swim.’

Still he would not ask her why she iiald not go in then.
He could feel something ironic in her. He walked away,
piqued for the first time.

"Y= MS Fea ie

BREADALBY | 105

** Why wouldn’t you bathe ?’? he asked her again, later,
when he was once more the properly-dressed young

_ Englishman.

She hesitated a moment before answering, opposing his
persistence.

** Because I didn’t like the crowd,’’ she replied.

He laughed, her phrase seemed to re-echo in his con- ~
sciousness. The flavour of her slang was piquant to him.
Whether he would or not, she signified the real world to
him. He wanted to come up to her standards, fulfil her
expectations. He knew that her criterion was the only one
that mattered. The others were all outsiders, instinctively,
whatever they might be socially. And Gerald could not
help it, he was bound to strive to come up to her criterion,
fulfil her idea of a man and a human-being.

After lunch, when all the others had withdrawn, Her-
mione and Gerald and Birkin lingered, finishing their talk.
There had been some discussion, on the whole quite intel-
lectual and artificial, about a new state, a new world of man.
Supposing this old social state were broken and destroyed,
then, out of the chaos, what then?

The great social idea, said Sir Joshua, was the social

| equality of man. No, said Gerald, the idea was, that every

man was fit for his own little bit of a task—let him do that,
and then please himself. The unifying principle was the
work in hand. Only work, the business of production, held
men together. It was mechanical, but then society was a
mechanism. Apart from work they were isolated, free to do
as they liked.

** Oh!” cried Gudrun. ‘* Then we shan’t have names
any more—we shall be like the Germans, nothing but Herr
Obermeister and Herr Untermeister. I can imagine it—* I
am Mrs Colliery-Manager Crich—I am Mrs Member-of-Par-
liament Roddice. I am Miss Art-Teacher Brangwen.’ Very
pretty that.”’

** Things would work very much better, Miss Art-Teacher
Brangwen,”’ said Gerald.

_** What things, Mr Colliery-Manager Crich? The rela-
tion between you and me, par exemple?’’

** Yes, for example,”’ cried the Italian. ‘* That which is
between men and women—! ”’

** That is non-social,’’ said Birkin, sarcastically.
** Exactly,” said Gerald. ‘* Between me and a woman,

106. WOMEN IN LOVE

the social question does not enter. It is my own
affair.’’

** A ten-pound note on it,” said Birkin.

** You don’t admit that a woman is a social being?”
asked Ursula of Gerald.

** She is both,”’ said Gerald. ‘* She is a social being, as
far as society is concerned. But for her own private self,
she is a free agent, it is her own affair, what she does.’ -

** But won’t it be rather difficult to arrange the two
halves ?’? asked Ursula.

** Oh no,” replied Gerald. ‘* They arrange themselves
naturally—we see it now, everywhere.”’

** Don’t you laugh so pleasantly till you’re out of the
wood,”’ said Birkin.

Gerald knitted his brows in momentary irritation.

** Was I laughing ?’’ he said.

** If,’? said Hermione at last, ** we could only realise,
that in the spirit we are all one, all equal in the spirit, all
brothers there—the rest wouldn’t matter, there would be no
more of this carping and envy and this struggle for power,
which destroys, only destroys.”’

This speech was received in silence, and almost imme-
diately the party rose from the table. But when the others
had gone, Birkin turned round in bitter declamation, say-
ing:

** It is just the opposite, just the contrary, Hermione.
We are all different and unequal in spirit—it is only the
social differences that are based on accidental material con-
ditions. We are all abstractly or mathematically equal, if
you like. Every man has hunger and thirst, two eyes, one
nose and two legs. We’re all the same in point of number.
But spiritually, there is pure difference and neither equality
nor inequality counts. It is upon these two bits of know-
ledge that you must found a state. Your democracy is an
absolute lie—your brotherhood of man is a pure falsity, if
-you apply it further than the mathematical abstraction.
We all drank milk first, we all eat bread and meat, we all
want to ride in motor-cars—therein lies the beginning and
the end of the brotherhood of man. But no equality.

** But I, myself, who am myself, what have I to do with
equality with any other man or woman? In the spirit, I
am as separate as one star is from another, as different in
quality and quantity. Establish a state on that. One man

FE aera
’ rn ee

BREADALBY 107

isn’t any better than another, not because they are equal,
but because they are intrinsically other, that there is no
term of comparison. The minute you begin to compare,
one man is seen to be far better than another, all the
inequality you can imagine is there by nature. I want every
man to have his share in the world’s goods, so that I am
rid of his importunity, so that I can tell him : ‘ Now you’ve
got what you want—you’ve got your fair share of the

world’s gear. Now, you one-mouthed fool, mind yourself

and don’t obstruct me.”’

Hermione was looking at him with leering eyes, along her
cheeks. He could feel violent waves of hatred and loathing
of all he said, coming out of her. It was dynamic hatred
and loathing, coming strong and black out of the uncon-
sciousness. She heard his words in her unconscious self,
consciously she was as if deafened, she paid no heed to
them.

**It sounds like megelomania, Rupert,’’ said Gerald,
genially.

Hermione gave a queer, grunting sound. Birkin stood
back.

** Yes, let it,’’ he said suddenly, the whole tone gone out
of his voice, that had been so insistent, bearing everybody
down. And he went away.

But he felt, later, a little compunction. He had been
violent, cruel with poor Hermione. He wanted to recom-
pense her, to make it up. He had hurt her, he had been
vindictive. He wanted to be on good terms with her again.

He went into her boudoir, a remote and very cushiony
place. She was sitting at her table writing letters. She
lifted her face abstractedly when he entered, watched him
go to the sofa, and sit down. Then she looked down at her
paper again.

He took up a large volume which he had been reading
before, and became minutely attentive to his author. His
back was towards Hermione. She could not go on with
her writing. Her whole mind was a chaos, darkness break-
ing in upon it, and herself struggling to gain control with
her will, as a swimmer struggles with the swirling water.
But in spite of her efforts she was borne down, darkness
seemed to break over her, she felt as if her heart was burst-
ing. The terrible tension grew stronger and stronger, it was
most fearfu] agony, like being walled up.

DPS ON aS PRIMEY UE RAN SMM Ny a meta at t= TC Ma VAM SOP Om Re Oe ae ie ace ee a
Lh Fa ah ey 7h “pe M Bigs a ag gS k x Myre oy i Ri Mops

i yen Eat cy aR ERT py ket ana RES

A a ; : : re Us bs

168 WOMEN IN LOVE

And then she realised that his presence was the wall, his
presence was destroying her. Unless she could break out,
she must die most fearfully, walled up in horror. And he
was the wall. She must break down the wall—she must
break him down before her, the awful obstruction of him
who obstructed her life to the last. It must be done, or
she must perish most horribly.

Terribly shocks ran over her body, like shocks of elec-
tricity, as if many volts of electricity suddenly struck her
down. She was aware of him sitting silently there, an un-
thinkable evil obstruction. Only this blotted out her mind,
pressed out her very breathing, his silent, stooping back, the
back of his head.

A terrible voluptuous thrill ran down her arms—
she was going to know her voluptuous consumma-
tion. Her arms quivered and were strong, im-
measurably and _ irresistibly strong. What delight,
what delight in strength, what delirium of pleasure!
She was going to have her consummation of volup-
tuous ecstasy at last. It was coming! In utmost
terror and agony, she knew it was upon her now, in ex-
tremity of bliss. Her hand closed on a blue, beautiful ball |
of lapis lazuli that stood on her desk for a paper-weight.
She rolled it round in her hand as she rose silently. Her
heart was a pure flame in her breast, she was purely uncon-
scious in ecstasy. She moved towards him and stood be-
hind him for a moment in ecstasy. He, closed within the
spell, remained motionless and unconscious.

Then swiftly, in a flame that drenched down her body like
fluid lightning and gave her a perfect, unutterable consum-
mation, unutterable satisfaction, she brought down the ball
of jewel stone with all her force, crash on his head. But
her fingers were in the way and deadened the blow. Never-
theless, down went his head on the table on which his book
lay, the stone slid aside and over his ear, it was one convul-
sion of pure bliss for her, lit up by the crushed pain of her
fingers. But it was not somehow complete. She lifted her
arm high to aim once more, straight down on the head that
lay dazed on the table. She must smash it, it must be
smashed before her ecstasy was consummated, fulfilled for
ever. A thousand lives, a thousand deaths mattered noth-
ing now, only the fulfilment of this perfect ecstasy.

She was not swift, she could only move slowly. A strong

CO ee aes
< a!

BREADALBY 109

spirit in him woke him and made him lift his face and twist
to look at her. Her arm was raised, the hand clasping the
ball of lapis lazuli. It was her left hand, he realised again
with horror that she was left-handed. Hurriedly, with a
burrowing motion, he covered his head under the thick
volume of Thucydides, and the blow came down, almost

_ breaking his neck, and shattering his heart.

He was shattered, but he was not afraid. Twisting round
to face her he pushed the table over and got away from her.
He was like a flask that is smashed to atoms, he seemed to
himself that he was all fragments, smashed to bits. Yet his
movements were perfectly coherent and clear, his soul was
entire and unsurprised.

** No you don’t, Hermione,’’ he said in a low voice. ‘* I
don’t let you.”’

He saw her standing tall and livid and attentive, the stone
clenched tense in her hand.

*¢ Stand away and let me go,’’ he said, drawing near to
her.

As if pressed back by some hand, she stood away, watch-
ing him all the time without changing, like a neutralised
angel confronting him.

** It is no good,”’ he said, when he had gone past her.
** It isn’t I who will die. You hear?”

He kept his face to her as he went out, lest she shaata
strike again. While he was on his guard, she dared not
move. And he was on his guard, she was powerless. So he
had gone, and left her standing.

She remained perfectly rigid, standing as she was for a
long time. Then she staggered to the couch and lay down,
and went heavily to sleep. When she awoke, she remem-
bered what she had done, but it seemed to her, she had only
hit him, as any woman might do, because he tortured her.
She was perfectly right. She knew that, spiritually, she was |
right. In her own infallible purity, she had done what must
be done. She was right, she was pure. A drugged, almost
sinister religious expression became permanent on her face.

Birkin, barely conscious, and yet perfectly direct in his
motion, went out of the house and straight across the park,
to the open country, to the hills. The brilliant day had be-
come overcast, spots of rain were falling. He wandered on
to a wild valley-side, where were thickets of hazel, many

_ flowers, tufts of heather, and little clumps of young fir-trees,

rs alae ee ae ONL E ee ORY PERE O° 2 SOR] Ge eS Sr ae EN a bid TEST Vi oe ,e 4
’ Wiha: Deas at ial Mes “ag a Paglia my ays we “ <P -
; q FN eek a.

110 WOMEN IN LOVE

budding with soft paws. It was rather wet everywhere,
there was a stream running down at the bottom of the
valley, which was gloomy, or seemed gloomy. He was
aware that he could not regain his consciousness, that he
was moving in a sort of darkness.

Yet he wanted something. He was happy in the wet hill-
side, that was overgrown and. obscure with bushes and
flowers. He wanted to touch them all, to saturate himself
with the touch of them all. He took off his clothes, and sat
down naked among the primroses, moving his feet softly
among the primroses, his legs, his knees, his arms right up
to the arm-pits, lying down and letting them touch his belly,
his breasts. It was such a fine, cool, subtle touch all over
him, he seemed to saturate himself with their contact.

But they were too soft. He went through the long grass
to a clump of young fir-trees, that were no higher than a
man. ‘The soft sharp boughs beat upon him, as he moved in
keen pangs against them, threw little cold showers of drops
on his belly, and beat his loins with their clusters of soft-
sharp needles. There was a thistle which pricked him
vividly, but not too much, because all his movements were
too discriminate and soft. To lie down and roll in the
sticky, cool young hyacinths, to lie on one’s belly and cover
one’s back with handfuls of fine wet grass, soft as a breath,
soft and more delicate and more beautiful than the touch of
any woman; and then to sting one’s thigh against the living
dark bristles of the fir-boughs; and then to feel the light
whip of the hazel on one’s shoulders, stinging, and then to
clasp the silvery birch-trunk against one’s breast, its
smoothness, its hardness, its vital knots and ridges—this was
good, this was all very good, very satisfying. Nothing else
would do, nothing else would satisfy, except this coolness
and subtlety of vegetation travelling into one’s blood. How |
fortunate he was, that there was this lovely, subtle, respon-
sive vegetation, waiting for him, as he waited for it; how
fulfilled he was, how happy !

As he dried himself a little with his handkerchief, he
thought about Hermione and the blow. He could feel a
pain on the side of his head. But after all, what did it
matter? What did Hermione matter, what did people mat-
ter altogether? There was this perfect cool loneliness, so
lovely and fresh and unexplored. Really, what a mistake
he had made, thinking he wanted people, thinking he wanted

BREADALBY 1

a woman. He did not want a woman—not in the least.
The leaves and the primroses and the trees, they were really
lovely and cool and desirable, they really came into the
blood and were added on to him. He was enrichened now
immeasureably, and so glad.

_ It was quite right of Hermione to want to kill him.
What had he to do with her? Why should he pretend to
have anything to do with human beings at all? Here was
his world, he wanted nobody and nothing but the lovely,
subtle, responsive vegetation, and bimself, his own living
self.

It was necessary to go back into the world. That was
true. But that did not matter, so one knew where one be-
longed. He knew now where he belonged. This was his
place, his marriage place. The world was extraneous.

He climbed out of the valley, wondering if he were mad.
But if so, he preferred his own madness, to the regular
sanity. He rejoiced in his own madness, he was free. He
did not want that old sanity of the world, which was become
so repulsive. He rejoiced in the new-found world of his
madness. It was so fresh'and delicate and so satisfying.

As for the certain grief he felt at the same time, in his
soul, that was only the remains of an old ethic, that bade a
human being adhere to humanity. But he was weary of the
old ethic, of the human being, and of humanity. He loved
now the soft, delicate vegetation, that was so cool and per-
fect. He would overlook the old grief, he would put away
the old ethic, he would be free in his new state.

He was aware of the pain in his head becoming more and
more difficult every minute. He was walking now along the
road to the nearest station. It was raining and he had no
hat. But then plenty of cranks went out nowadays without
hats, in the rain.

He wondered again how much of his heaviness of heart, a
certain depression, was due to fear, fear lest anybody should
have seen him naked lying against, the vegetation. What a
dread he had of mankind, of other people! It amounted
almost to horror, to a sort of dream terror—his horror of —
being observed by some other people. If he were on an
island, like Alexander Selkirk, with only the creatures and
the trees, he would be free and glad, there would be none
of this heaviness, this misgiving. He could love the vege-
tation and be quite happy and unquestioned, by himself.

112 WOMEN. IN. LOVE.

He had better send a note to Hermione: she might —
trouble about him, and he did not want the onus of this.
So at the station, he wrote saying : .

**T will go on to town—I don’t want to come back to
Breadalby for the present. But it is quite all right—I
don’t want you to mind having biffed me, in the least.
Tell the others it is just one of my moods. You were
quite right, to biff me—because I know you wanted to.
So there’s the end of it.’’

In the train, however, he felt ill. Every motion was in-
sufferable pain, and he was sick. He dragged himself from
the station into a cab, feeling his way step by step, like a
blind man, and held up only by a dim will.

For a week or two he was ill, but he did not let Hermione
know, and she thought he was sulking ; ; there was a complete
estrangement between them. She became rapt, abstracted
in her conviction of exclusive righteousness. She lived in
and by her own self-esteem, conviction of her own rightness
of spirit.

CHAP: IX. COAL-DUST

Goinc home from school in the afternoon, the Brangwen
girls descended the hill between the picturesque cottages of
Willey Green till they came to the railway crossing. There
they found the gate shut, because the colliery train was
rumbling nearer. They could hear the small locomotive
panting hoarsely as it advanced with caution between the
embankments. The one-legged man in the little signal-hut
by the road stared out from his security, like a crab from a
snail-shell.

Whilst the two girls waited, Gerald Crich trotted up on a
red Arab mare. He rode well and softly, pleased with the
delicate quivering of the creature between his knees. And
he was very picturesque, at least in Gudrun’s eyes, sitting
soft and close on the slender red mare, whose long tail flowed
on the air. He saluted the two girls, and drew up at the
crossing to wait for the gate, looking down the railway for
the approaching train. In spite of her ironic smile at his
picturesqueness, Gudrun liked to look at him. He was well-
set and easy, his face with its warm tan showed up his
whitish, coarse moustache, and his blue eyes were full of
sharp light as he watched the distance.

The locomotive chuffed slowly between the banka » hidden.
The mare did not like it. She began to wince away, as if
hurt by the unknown noise. But Gerald pulled her back
and held her head to the gate. The sharp blasts of the
chuffing engine broke with more and more force on her.
The repeated sharp blows of unknown, terrifying noise
struck through her till she was rocking with terror. She
recoiled like a spring let go. But a glistening, half-smiling
look came into Gerald’s face. He brought her back again,
inevitably.

The noise was released, the little locomotive with her
clanking steel connecting-rod emerged on the highroad,
clanking sharply. The mare rebounded like a drop of water
from hot iron. Ursula and Gudrun pressed back into the
hedge, in fear. But Gerald was heavy on the mare, and
forced her back. It seemed as if he sank into her magneti-
eally, and could thrust her back against herself.

H 118

44 WOMEN IN LOVE

** The fool ! *? cried Ursula loudly. ‘*Why doesn’t he
ide away till it’s gone by? ”

Gudrun was looking at him with black-dilated, spelibouell
eyes. But he sat glistening and obstinate, ‘forcing the
wheeling mare, which spun and swerved like a wind, and
yet could not get out of the grasp of his will, nor escape ‘from
the mad clamour of terror that resounded through her, as
the trucks thumped slowly, heavily, horrifying, one after
the other, one pursuing the other, over the rails of the
crossing.

The locomotive, as if wanting to see what could be done,
put on the brakes, and back came the trucks rebounding on
the iron buffers, striking like horrible cymbals, clashing
nearer and nearer in frightful strident concussions. The
mare opened her mouth and rose slowly, as if lifted up on a
wind of terror. Then suddenly her fore feet struck out, as
she convulsed herself utterly away from the horror. Back
she went, and the two girls clung to each other, feeling she
must fall backwards on top of him. But he leaned forward,
his face shining with fixed amusement, and at last he
brought her down, sank her down, and was bearing her back
to the mark. But as strong as the pressure of his compul-
sion was the repulsion of her utter terror, throwing her back
away from the railway, so that she spun round and
round, on two legs, as if she were in the centre of some
whirlwind. It made Gudrun faint with poignant dizziness,
which spine to penetrate to her heart.

** No—! No—! Lethergo! Let her go, you fool, you ©
fool——- ! *? cried Ursula at the top of her voice, completely |
outside herself. And Gudrun hated her bitterly for being
outside herself. It was unendurable that Ursula’s voice was
so powerful and naked.

A sharpened look came on Gerald’s face. He bit himself
down on the mare like a keen edge biting home, and forced
her round. She roared as she breathed, her nostrils were
too wide, hot holes, her mouth was apart, her eyes frenzied.
It was a repulsive sight. But he held on her unrelaxed,
with an almost mechanical relentlessness, keen as a awoit
pressing in to her. Both man and horse were sweating with
violence. Yet he seemed calm as a ray of cold sunshine.

Meanwhile the eternal trucks were rumbling on, very ©
slowly, treading one after the other, one after the other, like
a disgusting dream that has no end. The connecting chains

pet nih yihag) ae hig Set i ay sou Ce YOANN)
COALDUST «0 " 115

were grinding and squeaking as the tension varied, the mare
pawed and struck away mechanically now, her terror ful-
filled in her, for now the man encompassed her; her paws
were blind and pathetic as she beat the air, the man closed
round her, and brought her down, almost as if she were part
of his own physique. |

** And she’s bleeding! She’s bleeding! ’’ cried Ursula,
frantic with opposition and hatred of Gerald. She alone
understood him perfectly, in pure opposition.

Gudrun looked and saw the trickles of blood on the sides
of the mare, and she turned white. And then on the very
wound the bright spurs came down, pressing relentlessly.
The world reeled and passed into nothingness for Gudrun,
she could not know any more.

When she recovered, her soul was calm and cold, without
feeling. The trucks were still rumbling by, and the man
and the mare were still fighting. But she herself was cold
and separate, she had no more feeling for them. She was
quite hard and cold and indifferent.

They could see the top of the hooded guard’s-van
approaching, the sound of the trucks was diminishing, there
was hope of relief from the intolerable noise, The heavy
panting of the half-stunned mare sounded automatically,
the man seemed to be relaxing confidently, his will bright
and unstained. The guard’s-van came up, and passed
slowly, the guard staring out in his transition on the spec-
tacle in the road. And, through the man in the closed
wagon Gudrun could see the whole scene spectacularly, iso-
lated and momentary, like a vision isolated in eternity.

Lovely, grateful silence seemed to trail behind the reced-
ing train. How sweet the silence is! Ursula looked with
hatred on the buffers of the diminishing wagon. The gate-
Keeper stood ready at the door of his hut, to proceed to
open the gate. But Gudrun sprang suddenly forward, in
front of the struggling horse, threw off the latch and flung
the gates asunder, throwing one-half to the keeper, and
running with the other half, forwards. Gerald suddenly let
go the horse and leaped forwards, almost on to Gudrun.
She was not afraid. As he jerked aside the mare’s head,
Gudrun cried, in a strange, high voice, like a gull, or like a
witch screaming out from the side of the road :

** J should think you’re proud.”’

The words were distinct and formed. The man, twisting

Ft eA) Se oe ONE Ge ae ie err. hee te ik
(aeration eat Hat ECO EAT Og a Me ga
Y Sab kee SOLED ae eet 0 reer: Clee

116 WOMEN IN LOVE

aside on his dancing horse, looked at her in some surprise,
some wondering interest. Then the mare’s hoofs had
danced three times on the drum-like sleepers of the crossing,
and man and horse were bounding springily, unequally up
the road.

The two girls watched them go. The gate-keeper hobbled
thudding over the logs of the crossing, with his wooden leg.
He had fastened the gate. Then he also turned, and called
to the girls :

** A masterful young jockey, that; *Il have his own road,
if ever anybody would.”’

** Yes,”’ cried Ursula, in her hot, overbearing voice.
** Why couldn’t he take the horse away, till the trucks had
gone by? He’s a fool, and a bully. Does he think it’s
manly, to torture a horse? It’s a living thing, why should
he bully it and torture it ?”’

There was a pause, then the gate-keeper shook his head,
and replied :

** Yes, it’s as nice a little mare as you could set eyes on—
beautiful little thing, beautiful. Now you couldn’t see his
father treat any animal like that—not you. They’re as
different as they welly can be, Gerald Crich and his father—
two different men, different made.’’

Then there was a pause.

** But. why does he do it ?’’ cried Ursula, ‘* why does he?
Does he think he’s grand, when he’s bullied a_ sensitive
creature, ten times as sensitive as himself P’’

Again there was a cautious pause. Then again the man
shook his head, as if he would say nothing, but would think
the more.

**T expect he’s got to train the mare to stand to any-
thing,’’ he replied. ‘* A pure-bred Harab—not the sort of
breed as is used to round here—different sort from
our sort altogether. They say as he got her from
Constantinople.”’

** He would! *? said Ursula. ‘* He’d better have left her
to the Turks, I’m sure they would have had more decency
towards her.”’

The man went in to drink his can of tea, the girls went on
down the lane, that was deep in soft black dust. Gudrun
was as if numbed in her mind by the sense of indomitable
soft weight of the man, bearing down into the living body
of the horse: the strong, indomitable thighs of the blond

COALDUST 117

_ man clenching the palpitating body of the mare into pure

- control; a sort of soft white magnetic domination from the

_ loins and thighs and calves, enclosing and encompassing the
mare heavily into unutterable subordination, soft blood-sub-
ordination, terrible. ,

On the left, as the girls walked silently, the coal-mine
lifted its great mounds and its patterned head-stocks, the
black railway with the trucks at rest looked like a harbour
just below, a large bay of railroad with anchored
wagons. |

Near the second level-crossing, that went over many
bright rails, was a farm belonging to the collieries, and a
great round globe of iron, a disused boiler, huge and rusty
and perfectly round, stood silently in a paddock by the road.
The hens were pecking round it, some chickens were

_ balanced on the drinking trough, wagtails flew away in
among trucks, from the water. .

On the other side of the wide crossing, by the road-side,
was a heap of pale-grey stones for mending the roads, and a
cart standing, and a middle-aged man with whiskers round
his face was leaning on his shovel, talking to a young man
in gaiters, who stood by the horse’s head. Both men were
facing the crossing.

They saw the two girls appear, small, brilliant figures in
the near distance, in the strong light of the late afternoon.
Both wore light, gay summer dresses, Ursula had an orange-
coloured knitted coat, Gudrun a pale yellow, Ursula wore
canary yellow stockings, Gudrun bright rose, the figures of
the two women seemed to glitter in progress over the wide
bay of the railway crossing, white and orange and yellow
and rose glittering in motion across a hot world silted with
coal-dust.

The two men stood quite still in the heat, watching. The
elder was a short, hard-faced energetic man of middle age,
the younger a labourer of twenty-three or so. They stood
in silence watching the advance of the sisters. They
watched whilst the girls drew near, and whilst they passed,
and whilst they receded down the dusty road, that had
dwellings on one side, and dusty young corn on the
other. |

Then the elder man, with the whiskers round his face, said
in a prurient manner to the young man :

** What price that, eh? She’ll do, won’t she ?”’

118

** Which?”? asked the young man, eagerly, with a
laugh. aly

** Her with the red stockings. Whatd’ yousay? I’d
give my week’s wages for five minutes ; what !—just for five
minutes.”’ .

Again the young man laughed.

‘* Your missis *ud have summat to say to you,’ he
replied.

Gudrun had turned round and looked at the two men.
They were to her sinister creatures, standing watching after
her, by the heap of pale grey slag. She loathed the man
with whiskers round his face. )

** You’re first class, you are,’’ the man said to her, and to
the distance.

** Do you think it would be worth a week’s wages ?” said
the younger man, musing. ©

“Dol? I’d put *em bloody-well down this second—”’

The younger man looked after Gudrun and Ursula objec-
tively, as if he wished to calculate what there might be, that
was worth his week’s wages. He shook his head with fatal
misgiving.

‘© No,’’ he said. ‘‘ It’s not worth that to me.”’

“© Isnt??? said the old man. ‘* By God, if it isn’t. to
me! ”?

And he went on shovelling his stones.

The girls descended between the houses with slate roofs
and blackish brick walls. The heavy gold glamour of ap-
proaching sunset lay over all the colliery district, and the
ugliness overlaid with beauty was like a narcotic to the
senses. On the roads silted with black dust, the rich light
fell more warmly, more heavily, over all the amorphous
squalor a kind of magic was cast, from the glowing close of
day.

a It has a foul kind of beauty, this place,” said Gudrun,
evidently suffering from fascination. ‘‘ Can’t you feel in
some way, a thick, hot attraction in it? I can. And it
quite stupifies me.”’

They were passing between blocks of miners’ dwellings.
In the back yards of several dwellings, a miner could be
seen washing himself in the open on this hot evening, naked
down to the loins, his great trousers of moleskin slipping
almost away. Miners already cleaned were sitting on their
heels, with their backs near the walls. talking and silent in

| COAL-DUST 119
pure physical well-being, tired, and taking physical rest.
Their voices sounded out with strong intonation, and the
broad dialect was curiously caressing to the blood. It
seemed to envelop Gudrun in a laborer’s caress, there was in
the whole atmosphere a resonance of physical men, a glam-
orous thickness of labour and maleness, surcharged in the
air. But it was universal in the district, and therefore un-
noticed by the inhabitants.

To Gudrun, however, it was potent and half-repulsive.
She could never tell why Beldover was so utterly different
from London and the south, why one’s whole feelings were
different, why one seemed to live in another sphere. Now
she realised that this was the world of powerful, underworld
men who spent most of.their time in the darkness. In their
voices she could hear the voluptuous resonance of dark-
ness, the strong, dangerous underworld, mindless, inhuman,
They sounded also like strange machines, heavy, oiled.
The voluptuousness was like that of machinery, cold and
iron.

It was the same every evening when she came home, she
seemed to move through a wave of disruptive force, that was
given off from the presence of thousands of vigorous, under-
world, half-automatised colliers; and which went to the
brain and the heart, awaking a fatal desire, and a fatal cal-
lousness.

There came over her a nostalgia for the place. She hated
it, she knew how utterly cut off it was, how hideous and how
sickeningly mindless. Sometimes she beat her wings like a
new Daphne, turning not into a tree but a machine. And
yet, she was overcome by the nostalgia. She struggled to
get more and more into accord with the atmosphere of the
place, she craved to get her satisfaction of it.

She felt herself drawn out at evening into the main street
of the town, that was uncreated and ugly, and yet sur-
charged with this same potent atmosphere of intense, dark
callousness. There were always miners about. They
moved with their strange, distorted dignity, a certain
beauty, and unnatural stillness in their bearing, a look of
abstraction and half resignation in their pale, often gaunt
faces. They belonged to another world, they had a strange
glamour, their voices were full of an intolerable deep reson-
ance, like a machine’s burring, a music more maddening
than the siren’s long ago.

ET) Veer ee in NT Ghee Rae em EY awchel bfen hy pled: LE, MA wt lian ols tee) games Nn nr
i : X es pat at a ak i. 44% me iat ty Bet

120 WOMEN IN LOVE

She found herself, with the rest of the common women,
drawn out on Friday evenings to the little market. Friday
was pay-day for the colliers, and Friday night was market —
night. Every woman was abroad, every man was out,
shopping with his wife, or gathering with his pals. The
pavements were dark for miles around with people coming
in, the little market-place on the crown of the hill, and the
main street of Beldover were black with thickly-crowded
men and women.

It was dark, the market-place was hot with kerosene
flares, which threw a ruddy light on the grave faces of the
purchasing wives, and on the pale abstract faces of the men.
The air was full of the sound of criers and of people talking,
thick streams of people moved on the pavements towards
the solid crowd of the market. The shops were blazing and
packed with women, in the streets were men, mostly men,
miners of all ages. Money. was spent with almost lavish
freedom.

The carts that came could not pass through. They had
to wait, the driver calling and shouting, till the dense crowd
would make way. Everywhere, young fellows from the out-
lying districts were making conversation with the girls,
standing in the road and at the corners. The doors of the
public-houses were open and full of light, men passed in and
out in a continual stream, everywhere men were calling out
to one another, or crossing to meet one another, or standing -
in little gangs and circles, discussing, endlessly discussing.
The sense of talk, buzzing, jarring, half-secret, the endless
mining and political wrangling, vibrated in the air like dis-
cordant machinery. And it was their voices which affected
Gudrun almost to swooning. They aroused a strange, nos-
talgic ache of desire, something almost demoniacal, never to
be fulfilled.

Like any other common girl of the district, Gudrun
strolled up and down, up and down the length of the bril-
liant two-hundred paces of the pavement nearest the
market-place. She knew it was a vulgar thing to do; her
father and mother could not bear it; but the nostalgia came
over her, she must be among the pedple. Sometimes she
sat among the louts in the cinema : rakish-looking, unattrac-
tive louts they were. Yet she must be among them.

And, like any other common lass, she found her * boy.’
It was an electrician, one of the electricians introduced

28 VA a SE SS Cr pe ee mE Te Ts
Nae be et 4

COAL-DUST 121

according to Gerald’s new scheme. He was an earnest,
clever man, a scientist with a passion for sociology. He
lived alone in a cottage, in lodgings, in Willey Green. He
was a gentleman, and sufficiently well-to-do. His landlady
spread the reports about him; he would have a large wooden
tub in his bedroom, and every time he came in from work,
he would have pails and pails of water brought up, to bathe
in, then he put on clean shirt and under-clothing every day,
and clean silk socks; fastidious and exacting he was in these
respects, but in every other way, most ordinary and un-
assuming.

Gudrun knew all these things. The Brangwen’s house
was one to which the gossip came naturally and inevitably.
Palmer was in the first place a friend of Ursula’s. But in
his pale, elegant, serious face there showed the same nos-
talgia that Gudrun felt. He too must walk up and down
the street on Friday evening. So he walked with Gudrun,
and a friendship was struck up between them. But he was
not in love with Gudrun; he really wanted Ursula, but for
some strange reason, nothing could happen between her and
him. He liked to have Gudrun about, as a fellow-mind—
but that was all. And she had no real feeling for him. He
was a scientist, he had to have a woman to back him. But
he was really impersonal, he had the fineness of an elegant
piece of machinery. He was too cold, too destructive to
care really for women, too great an egoist. He was polar-
ised by the men. Individually he detested. and despised
them. In the mass they fascinated him, as machinery
fascinated him. They were a new sort of machinery to him
—but incalculable, incalculable.

So Gudrun strolled the streets with Palmer, or went to the
cinema with him. And his long, pale, rather elegant face
flickered as he made his sarcastic remarks. There they
were, the two of them : two elegants in one sense: in the
other sense, two units, absolutely adhering to the people,
teeming with the distorted colliers. The same secret seemed
to be working in the souls of all alike, Gudrun, Palmer, the
rakish young bloods, the gaunt, middle-aged men. All had
a secret sense of power, and of inexpressible destructiveness,
and of fatal half-heartedness, a sort of rottenness in the will.
_ Sometimes Gudrun would start aside, see it all, see how

she was sinking in. And then she was filled with a fury of
contempt and anger. She felt she was sinking into one mass

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CHAP: X. SKETCH-BOOK

ONE morning the sisters were sketching by the side of Willey
Water, at the remote end of the lake. Gudrun had waded
out to a gravelly shoal, and was seated like a Buddhist,
staring fixedly at the water-plants that rose succulent from
the mud of the low shores. What she could see was mud,
soit, oozy, watery mud, and from its festering chill, water-
plants rose up, thick and cool and fleshy, very straight and
turgid, thrusting out their leaves at right angles, and hav-
ing dark lurid colours, dark green and blotches of black-
purple and bronze. But she could feel their turgid fleshy
structure as in a sensuous vision, she knew how they rose
out of the mud, she knew how they thrust out from them-
selves, how they stood stiff and succulent against the air.
Ursula was watching the butterflies, of which there were
dozens near the water, little blue ones suddenly snapping
out of nothingness into a jewel-life, a large black-and-red
one standing upon a flower and breathing with his soft
wings, intoxicatingly, breathing pure, ethereal sunshine;
two white ones wrestling in the low air; there was a halo
round them ; ah, when they came tumbling nea:er they were
orange-tips, and it was the orange that had made the halo.
Ursula rose and drifted away, unconscious like the butter-

- flies.

Gudrun, absorbed in a stupor of apprehension of surging
water-plants, sat crouched on the shoal, drawing, not look-
ing up for a long time, and then staring unconsciously,
absorbedly at the rigid, naked, succulent stems. Her feet
were bare, her hat lay on the bank opposite.

She started out of her trance, hearing the knocking of
oars. She looked round. There was a boat with a gaudy
Japanese parasol, and a man in white, rowing. The woman
was Hermione, and the man was Gerald. She knew it
instantly. And instantly she perished in the keen frisson
of anticipation, an electric vibration in her veins, intense,
much more intense than that which was always humming
\ow in the atmosphere of Beldover.

Gerald was her escape from the heavy slough of the pale,
underworld, automatic colliers. He started out of the mud.

123

124 WOMEN IN LOVE

He was master. She saw his back, the movement of his
white loins. But not that—it was the whiteness he seemed
to enclose as he bent forwards, rowing. He seemed to stoop
to something. His glistening, whitish hair seemed like the
electricity of the sky.

** There’s Gudrun,”’ came Hermione’s voice floating dis-
tinct over the water. ‘* We will go and speak to her. Do
you mind ?”’

Gerald looked round and saw the girl standing by the
water’s edge, looking at him. He pulled the boat towards
her, magnetically, without thinking of her. In his world,
his conscious world, she was still nobody. He knew that
Hermione had a curious pleasure in treading down all the
social differences, at least apparently, and he left it to her.

** How do you do, Gudrun ?’? sang Hermione, using the
Christian name in the fashionable manner. ‘* What are you
doing ?”’ ,

** How do you do, Hermione? I was sketching.”’

** Were you?’”? The boat drifted nearer, till the keel
ground on the bank. ‘* May we see? _ I should like to so
much.”’

It was no use resisting Hermione’s deliberate intention.

** Well— ”’ said Gudrun reluctantly, for she always hated
to have her unfinished work exposed—* there’s nothing in
the least interesting.’’

** Isn’t there? But let me see, will you?’’

Gudrun reached out the sketch-book, Gerald stretched
from the boat to take it. And as he did so, he remembered
Gudrun’s last words to him, and her face lifted up to him as
he sat on the swerving horse. An intensification of pride
went over his nerves, because he felt, in some way she was
compelled by him. The exchange of feeling between them
was strong and apart from their consciousness.

And as if in a spell, Gudrun was aware of his body,
stretching and surging like the marsh-fire, stretching
towards her, his hand coming straight forward like a stem.
Her voluptuous, acute apprehension of him made the blood
faint in her veins, her mind went dim and unconscious.
And he rocked on the water perfectly, like the rocking of
phosphorescence. He looked round at the boat. It was
drifting off a little. He lifted the oar to bring it back. And
the exquisite pleasure of slowly arresting the boat, in the
heavy-soft water, was complete as a swoon.

SKETCH-BOOK 125
_ ** That’s what you have done,’’ said Hermione, looking
searchingly at the plants on the shore, and comparing with
Gudrun’s drawing. Gudrun looked round in the direction
of Hermione’s long, pointing finger. ‘* That is it, isn’t it ?”’
repeated Hermione needing confirmation.

‘‘ Yes,”? said Gudrun automatically, taking no real heed.

** Let me look,’ said Gerald, reaching forward for the
book. But Hermione ignored him, he must not presume,
before she had finished. But he, his will as unthwarted and
as unflinching as hers, stretched forward till he touched the
book. A little shock, a storm of revulsion against him,
shook Hermione unconsciously. She released the book
when he had not properly got it, and it tumbled against
the side of the boat and bounced into the water.

** There! ’? sang Hermione, with a strange ring of male-
volent victory. ‘I’m so sorry, so awfully sorry. Can’t
you get it, Gerald ?’’

This last was said in a note of anxious sneering that made
Gerald’s veins tingle with fine hate for her. He leaned far
out of the boat, reaching down into the water. He could
feel his position was ridiculous, his loins exposed behind him.

** It is of no importance,’? came the strong, clanging
voice of Gudrun. She seemed to touch him. But he
reached further, the boat swayed violently. Hermione,
however, remained unperturbed. He grasped the book,
under the water, and brought it up, dripping.

** I’m so dreadfully sorry—dreadfully sorry,’? repeated
Hermione. ‘* I’m afraid it was all my fault.’’

** It’s of no importance—really, I assure you—it doesn’t
matter in the least,’? said Gudrun loudly, with emphasis,
her face flushed scarlet. And she held out her hand im-
patiently for the wet book, to have done with the scene.
Gerald gave it to her. He was not quite himself.

** I’m so dreadfully sorry,’’ repeated Hermione, till both
Gerald and Gudrun were exasperated. ‘‘ Is there nothing
that can be done ?”’

** In what way ?’’ asked Gudrun, with cool irony.

** Can’t we save the drawings ?”’

There was a moment’s pause, wherein Gudrun made eévi-
dent all her refutation of Hermione’s persistence.

** J assure you,’’ said Gudrun, with cutting distinctness,
** the drawings are quite as good as ever they were, for my
purpose. I want them only for reference.’’

BS sae ai NANA ah Nubile thy Mi hk OMT N IN ME MUG Hac ag A
PRS Ame EY Wa NT A Grae pana a Ste ee
126 : WOMEN IN LOVE

** But can’t I give you anew book? I wish you’d let me
do that. I feel so truly sorry. I feel it was all my fault.”’

** As far as I saw,’’ said Gudrun, ‘* it wasn’t your fault
at all. If there was any fault, it was Mr Crich’s. But the
whole thing is entirely trivial, and it really is ridiculous to
take any notice of it.’’

Gerald watched Gudrun closely, whilst she repulsed Her-
mione. There was a body of cold power in her. He
watched her with an insight that amounted to clairvoyance.
He saw her a dangerous, hostile spirit, that could stand un-
diminished and unabated. It was so finished, and of such
perfect gesture, moreover.

** I’m awfully glad if it doesn’t matter,”’ he said; ‘* if
there’s no real harm done.’

She looked back at him, nite her fine blue eyes, and sig-
nalled full into. his spirit, as she said, her voice ringing
with intimacy almost caressive now it was addressed to him :

** Of course, it doesn’t matter in the least.”’

The bond was established between them, in that look, in
her tone. In her tone, she made the understanding clear—
‘they were of the same kind, he and she, a sort of diabolic
freemasonry subsisted between them. Henceforward, she
knew, she had her power over him. Wherever they met,
they would be secretly associated. And he would be help-
less in the association with her. Her soul exulted.

** Good-bye! I’m so glad you forgive me. Gooood-bye ! ”’

Hermione sang her farewell, and waved her hand. Gerald
automatically took the oar and pushed off. But he was
looking all the time, with a glimmering, subtly-smiling ad-
miration in his eyes, at Gudrun, who stood on the shoal
shaking the wet book in her hand. She turned away and
ignored the receding boat. But Gerald looked back as he
rowed, beholding her, forgetting what he was doing.

“ Ayen’t we going too much to the left ?’? sang Hermione,
as she sat ignored under her coloured parasol.

Gerald looked round without replying, the oars balanced
and glancing in the sun.

“* T think it’s all right,’? he said good-humouredly, begin-
ning to row again without thinking of what he was doing.
And Hermione disliked him extremely for his good-
humoured obliviousness, she was nullified, she could not
regain ascendancy.

si i aes ni is Pg pS eb ar a AE OB Ae afi ah ae OT aah Sa ay
bey wey aie es 5 :

2a Rie Af my

CHAP: XI. AN ISLAND

MEANWHILE Ursula had wandered on from Willey Water
along the course of the bright little stream. The aiternoon
was full of larks’ singing. On the bright hill-sides was a
subdued smoulder of gorse. A few forget-me-nots flowered
by the water. There was a rousedness and a glancing
everywhere.

She strayed absorbedly on, over the brooks. She
wanted to go to the mill-pond above. The big mill-house
was deserted, save for a laborer and his wife who lived in
the kitchen. So she passed through the empty farm-yard
and through the wilderness of a garden, and mounted the
bank by the sluice. When she got to the top, to see the old,
velvety surface of the pond before her, she noticed a man
on the bank, tinkering with a punt. It was Birkin sawing
and hammering away.

She stood at the head of the sluice, looking at him. He
Was unaware of anybody’s presence. He looked very busy,
like a wild animal, active and intent. She felt she ought to
go away, he would not want her.. He seemed to be so much
occupied... But she did not want to go away. Therefore she
moved along the bank till. he would look up.

Which he soon did. The moment he saw her, he dropped
his tools and came forward, saying :

** How do you do? I’m making the punt water-tight.
Tell me if you think it is right.’’

She went along with him.

** You are your father’s daughter, so you can tell me if it
will do,’’ he said.

She bent to look at the patched punt.

** 1 am sure I am my father’s daughter,” she said, fearful
of having to judge. ‘* But I don’t know anything about
carpentry. It looks right, don’t you think ?’’

** Yes, I think. I hope it won’t let me to the bottom, |
that’s all. Though even so, it isn’t a great matter, I should
come up again.” Help me to get it into the water, will
your”

With combined efforts wnat turned over the heavy punt
and set it afloat.

127

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; oP ak &

128 WOMEN IN LOVE

** Now,” he said, “ I’ll try it and you can watch what
happens. Then if it carries, I’ll take you over to the
island.”’

** Do,” she cried, watching anxiously.

The pond was large, and had that perfect stillness and
the dark lustre of very deep water. There were two small
islands overgrown with bushes and a few trees, towards the
middle. Birkin pushed himself off, and veered clumsily in
the pond. Luckily the punt drifted so that he could catch
hold of a willow bough, and pull it to the island.

** Rather overgrown,’’ he said, looking into the interior,
** but very nice. I’ll come and fetch you. The boat leaks
a little.’’

In a moment he was with her again, and she stepped into
the wet punt.

_ -** Tt? float us all right,’’ he said, and manceuvred again
to the island.

They landed under a willow tree. She shrank from the
little jungle of rank plants before her, evil-smelling fig-
wort and hemlock. But he explored into it.

** I shall mow this down,”’ he said, ‘‘ and then it will be
romantic—like Paul et Virginie.’’

** Yes, one could have lovely Watteau picnics here,’’
cried Ursula with enthusiasm.

His face darkened.

** I don’t want Watteau picnics here,’ he said.

** Only your Virginie,’’ she laughed.

** Virginie enough,”’ he smiled wryly. ‘* No, I don’t
want her either.”’

Ursula looked at him closely. She had not seen him
since Breadalby. He was very thin and hollow, with a
ghastly look in his face.

** You have been ill, haven’t you?’ she asked, rather
repulsed.

** Yes,’’ he replied coldly.

They had sat down under the willow tree, and were look-
ing at the pond, from their retreat on the island.

** Has it made you frightened ?”’ she asked.

** What of?’? he asked, turning his eyes to look at her.
Something in him, inhuman and unmitigated, disturbed her,
and shook her out of her ordinary self.

‘** It is frightening to be very ill, isn’t it ?’’ she said.

** Tt isn’t pleasant,’ he said. ‘* Whether one is really

Ps a4 Pere ee Fee ae Oe ee oe ee ea?) ee ep) ae ee Sp ree eRe Cee re OPN a a
Ca OR A Peet ORI ame EHO YS a Seda wig HAL sgt ‘ wAkel fra

AN ISLAND 129

‘
;

afraid of death, or not, I have never decided. In one mood,
not a bit, in another, very much.”’

** But doesn’t it make you feel ashamed? [I think it
makes one so ashamed, to be _ ill—illness is so terribly
humiliating, don’t you think ?’’

He considered for some minutes.

** May-be,”’ he said. ‘* Though one knows all the time
one’s life isn’t really mght, at the source. That’s the
humiliation. I don’t see that the illness counts so much,
after that. Oneeis ill because one doesn’t live properly—
can’t. It’s the failure to itive that makes one ill, and
humiliates one.’’ |

** But do you fail to live ?’’ she asked, almost jeering.

** Why yes—I don’t make much of a success of my days.
One seems always to be bumping one’s nose against the
blank wall ahead.”’

Ursula laughed. She was frightened, and when she was
frightened she always laughed and pretended to be jaunty.

** Your poor nose! ”’ she said, looking at that feature of
his face.

** No wonder it’s ugly,’ he replied.

She was silent for some minutes, struggling with her own
self-deception. It was an instinct in her, to deceive herself.
_ ** But I’m happy—I think life is awfully jolly,’’ she said.
** Good,’’ he answered, with a certain cold indifference.

She reached for a bit of paper which had wrapped a small .
piece of chocolate she had found in her pocket, and began
making a boat. He watched her without heeding her.
There was something strangely pathetic and tender in her
moving, unconscious finger-tips, that were agitated and
hurt, really.

** T do enjoy things—don’t you?”’ she asked.

‘Oh yes! But it infuriates me that I can’t get right, at
the really.growing part of me. I feel all tangled and messed
up, and I can’t get straight anyhow. I don’t know what
really to do. One must do something somewhere.”’

** Why should you always be doing?’’ she retorted. ‘* It
is so plebeian. I think it is much better to be really
patrician, and to do nothing but just be oneself, like a walk-
ing flower.”’

** T quite agree,’’ he said, “‘ if one has burst into blossom.
But I can’t get my flower to blossom anyhow. KEither it is
blighted in the bud, or has got the smother-fly, or it isn’t

I

130 WOMEN IN LOVE |.
nourished. Curse it, it isn’t even a bud. It is a contra- —
vened knot.’*

Again she laughed. He was so very fretful and exas- —
perated. But she was anxious and puzzled. How was one ~
to get out, anyhow. There must be a way out somewhere. —

There was a silence, wherein she wanted to cry. She |
reached for another bit of chocolate paper, and began to
fold another boat.

** And why is it,’’ she asked at length, ‘‘ that there is no
flowering, no dignity of human life now?”

** The whole idea is dead. Humanity itself is dry-rotten,
really. There are myriads of human beings hanging on the
bush—and they look very nice and rosy, your healthy young ~
men and women. But they are apples of Sodom, as a
matter of fact, Dead Sea Fruit, gall-apples. It isn’t true
that they have any significance—their insides are full of
bitter, corrupt ash.”’

** But there are good people,’ protested Ursula.

** Good enough for the life of to-day. But mankind is a
dead tree, covered with fine brilliant galls of people.”’ |
Ursula could not help stiffening herself against this, it was
too picturesque and final. But neither could she help mak-

ing him go on.

** And if it is so, why is it??? she asked hostile. They
were rousing each other to a fine passion of opposition.

** Why, why are people all balls of bitter dust? Because
they won’t fall off the tree when they’re ripe. They hang
on to their old positions when the position is overpast, till
they become infested with little worms and dry-rot.”’

There was a long pause. His voice had become hot and
very sarcastic. Ursula was troubled and bewildered, they ~
were both oblivious of everything but their own immersion. |

** But even if everybody is wrong—where are you right ?”’
she cried, *‘ where are you any better?”

** TP—I’m not right,’ he cried back. ‘* At least my only
rightness lies in the fact that I know it. I detest what I
am, outwardly. I loathe myself as a human being.
Humanity is a huge aggregate lie, and a huge lie is less than
a small truth. Humanity is less, far less than the in-
dividual, because the individual may sometimes be capable
of truth, and humanity is a tree of lies. And they say that
love is the greatest thing; they persist in saying this, the
toul liars, and just look at what they do! Look at all the

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- ir id 5

“AN ISLAND. 181

- millions of people who repeat every minute that love is the

greatest, and charity is the greatest—and see what they are
doing all the time. By their works ye shall know them, for
dirty liars and cowards, who daren’t stand by their own
actions, much less by their own words.’

** But,”’ said Ursula sadly, ‘* that doesn’t alter the fact
that love is the greatest, does it? What they do doesn’t
alter the truth of what they say, does it ?”’

** Completely, because if what they say were true, then
they couldn’t help fulfilling it. But they maintain a lie,
and so they run amok at last. It’s a lie to say that love is
the greatest. You might as well say that hate is the great-
est, since the opposite of everything balances. What
people want is hate—hate and nothing but hate. And in
the name of righteousness and love, they get it. They dis-
til themselves with nitro-glycerine, all the lot of them, out
of very love. It’s the lie that kills. If we want hate, let
us have it—death, murder, torture, violent destruction—let
us have it: but not in the name of love. But I abhor
humanity, I wish it was swept away. It could go, and
there would be no absolute loss, if every human being
perished to-morrow. The reality would be untouched.
Nay, it would be better. The real tree of life would then be
rid of the most ghastly, heavy crop of Dead Sea Fruit, the
intolerable burden of myriad simulacra of people, an infinite
weight of mortal lies.’’

** So you’d like everybody.in the world destroyed ?’’ said
Ursula.

** T should indeed.’’:

** And the world empty of people ?’’

*‘ Yes truly. You yourself, don’t you find it a beautiful
clean thought, a world empty of people, just uninterrupted
grass, and a hare sitting up ?’’

The pleasant sincerity of his voice made Ursula pause to
consider her own proposition. And really it was attractive :
a clean, lovely, humanless world. It was the really desir-
able. Her heart hesitated, and exulted. But still, she was
dissatisfied with him.

** But,”’ she objected, ‘* you’d be dead yourself, so what
good would it do you?’’

** I would die like a shot, to know that the earth would
really be cleaned of all the people. It is the most
beautiful and freeing thought. Then there would never

q j 7

132 WOMEN IN LOVE
be another foul humanity created, for a universal
defilement.’’ 3 iY

** No,” said Ursula, ‘* there would be nothing.”’

** What! Nothing? Just because humanity was wiped
out? You flatter yourself. There’d be everything.”

** But how, if there were no people ?’’

**Do you think that creation depends on man!
It merely doesn’t. There are the trees and the
grass and birds. I much prefer to think of the
lark rising up in the morning upon a humanless world.
Man is a mistake, he must go. There is the grass, and
hares and adders, and the unseen hosts, actual angels that
go about freely when a dirty humanity doesn’t interrupt
them—and good pure-tissued demons : very nice.”’

It pleased Ursula, what he said, pleased her very much,
as a phantasy. Of course it was only a pleasant fancy.
She herself knew too well the actuality of humanity, its
hideous actuality. She knew it could not disappear so
cleanly and conveniently. It had a long way to go yet, a
long and hideous way. Her subtle, feminine, demoniacal
_ soul knew it well.

** If only man was swept off the face of the earth, creation
would go on so marvellously, with a new start, non-human,
Man is one of the mistakes of creation—like the
ichthyosauri. If only he were gone again, think what lovely
things would come out of the liberated days ;—things
straight out of the fire.’’

** But man will never be gone,”’ she said, with insidious,
diabolical knowledge of the horrors of persistence. ‘* The
world will go with him.”’

** Ah no,”’ he answered, ** not so. I believe in the proud
angels and the demons that are our fore-runners. They
will destroy us, because we are not proud enough. The
ichthyosauri were not proud : they crawled and floundered
as we do. And besides, look at elder-flowers and bluebells
—they are a sign that pure creation takes place—even the
butterfly. But humanity never gets beyond the caterpillar
stage—it rots in the chrysalis, it never will have wings. It
is anti-creation, like monkeys and baboons.”’

Ursula watched him as he talked. There seemed a cer-
tain impatient fury in him, all the while, and at the same
time a great amusement in everything, and a final toler-
ance. And it was this tolerance she mistrusted, not the

AN ISLAND | —-:188

_ fury. She saw that, all the while, in spite of himself, he
would have to be trying to save the world. And this
_ knowledge, whilst it comforted her heart somewhere with a
little self-satisfaction, stability, yet filled her with a certain
sharp contempt and hate of him. She wanted him to her-
self, she hated the Salvator Munditouch. It was something
diffuse and generalised about him, which she could not
stand. He would behave in the same way, say the same
things, give himself as completely to anybody who came
along, anybody and everybody who liked to appeal to him.
_ It was despicable, a very insidious form of prostitution.
** But,’’ she said, ‘* you believe in individual love, even
if you don’t believe in loving humanity—? ”’
** I don’t believe in love at all—that is, any more than
- I believe in hate, or in grief. Love is one of the emotions
like all the others—and so it is all right whilst you feel it..
_ But I can’t see how it becomes an absolute. It is just part
of human relationships, no more. And it is only part of
any human relationship. And why one should be required
always to feel it, any more than one always feels sorrow or
distant joy, I cannot conceive. Love isn’t a desideratum—
it is an emotion you feel or you don’t feel, according to cir-
cumstance.”’
** Then why do you care about people at all?’ she asked,
** if you don’t believe in love? Why do you bother about
humanity ?”’
** Why dol? Because I can’t get away from it.”’
** Because you love it,”’ she persisted.
It irritated him. !
** Tf I do love it,”’ he said, ‘* it is my disease.”’
** But it is a disease you don’t want to be cured of,’’ she
said, with some cold sneering.
He was silent now, feeling she wanted to insult him.
** And if you don’t believe in love, what do you believe
in??? she asked mocking. ‘* Simply in the end of the world,
and grass ?’’
He was beginning to feel a fool.
** T believe in the unseen hosts,’’ he said. |
**‘And nothing else? You believe in nothing visible,
except grass and birds? Your world is a poor show.”’
** Perhaps it is,’’ he said, cool and superior now he was
offended, assuming a certain insufferable aloof superiority,
and withdrawing into his distance.

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aD oa LF SWS RE te) chic os ates tf ; eh ide 3 eye ea ae os weer me
NY DERE icy Scam inte iC NS i eee tay F

an

134 WOMEN IN LOVE

Ursula disliked him. But also she felt she had lost some- |

thing. She looked at him as he sat crouched on the bank.
There was a certain priggish Sunday-school stiffness over
him, priggish and detestable. And yet, at the same time,
the moulding of him was so quick and attractive, it gave
such a great sense of freedom : the moulding of his brows,
his chin, his whole physique, something so alive, some-
where, in spite of the look of sickness.

And it was this duality in feeling which he created in her,
that made a fine hate of him quicken in her bowels. There
was his wonderful, desirable life-rapidity, the rare quality
of an utterly desirable man : and there was at the same time
this ridiculous, mean effacement into a Salvator Mundi and
a Sunday-school teacher, a prig of the stiffest type.

He looked up at her. He saw her face strangely en-
kindled, as if suffused from within by a powerful sweet fire.
His soul was arrested in wonder. She was enkindled in her
own living fire. Arrested in wonder and in pure, perfect
attraction, he moved towards her. She sat like a strange
queen, almost supernatural in her glowing smiling rich-
ness.

** The point about love,’’ he said, his consciousness
quickly adjusting itself, ‘‘ is that we hate the word because
we have vulgarised it. It ought to be prescribed, tabooed

from utterance, for many years, till we get a new, better ~

idea.”’ | .

There was a beam of understanding between them.

** But it always means the same thing,”’ she said.

** Ah God, no, let it not mean that any more,” he cried.
** Let the old meanings go.”’

** But still it is love,”’ she persisted. A strange, wicked _

yellow light shone at him in her eyes.

He hesitated, baffled, withdrawing.

** No,’’ he said, *‘ it isn’t. Spoken like that, never in the
world. You’ve no business to utter the word.”’

** I must leave it to you, to take it out of the Ark of the
Covenant at the right moment,”’ she mocked.

Again they looked at each other. She suddenly sprang

up, turned her back to him, and walked away. He too rose
slowly and went to the water’s edge, where, crouching, he
began to amuse himself unconsciously. Picking a daisy he
dropped it on the pond, so that the stem was a keel, the
flower floated like a little water lily, staring with its open

hy

AN ISLAND | 1385

_ face up to the sky. It turned slowly round, in a slow, slow
_ Dervish dance, as it veered away.

He watched it, then dropped another daisy into the
water, and after that another, and sat watching them with
bright, absolved eyes, crouching near on the bank. Ursula
turned to look. . A strange feeling possessed her, as if some-
thing were taking place. But it was all intangible. And
some sort of control was being put on her. She could not
know. She could only watch the brilliant little dises of the
daisies veering slowly in travel on the dark, lustrous water.
The little flotilla was drifting into the light, a company of
white specks in the distance. ~

** Do let us go to the shore, to follow them,”’ she said,
afraid of being any longer imprisoned on the island. And
they pushed off in the punt.

She was glad to be on the free land again. She went
along the bank towards the sluice. The daisies were scat-
tered broadcast on the pond, tiny radiant things, like an
exaltation, points of exaltation here and there. Why did
they move her so strongly and mystically ?

** Look,*’ he said, ‘* your boat of purple paper is escort-
ing them, and they are a convoy of rafts.”’

Some of the daisies came slowly towards her, hesitating,
making a shy bright little cotillon on the dark clear water.
Their gay bright candour moved her so much as they came
near, that she was almost in tears.

** Why are they so lovely: she cried. ‘* Why do I think
them so lovely ??’

** They are nice flowers,’’ he said, her emotional tones
putting a constraint on him.

** You know that a daisy is a company of florets, a con-
course, become individual. Don’t the botanists put it
highest in the line of development? I believe they do.’’

** The composite, yes, I think so,’’ said Ursula, who was
never very sure of anything. Things she knew perfectly.
well, at one moment, seemed to become doubtful the next.

** Explain it so, then,’ he said. ‘* The daisy is a perfect
little democracy, so it’s the highest of flowers, hence its
charm.”’

** No,”’ she cried, ** no—never. It isn’t democratic.”’

** No,” he admitted. ‘‘ It’s the golden mob of the pro-
letariat, surrounded by a showy white fence of the idle
pen.”

136 WOMEN IN LOVE

** How hateful—your hateful social orders ! ’’ she cried.

** Quite! It’s a daisy—we’ll leave it alone.”’ ;
Do. Let it be a dark horse for once,’’ she said: “* if

anything can be a dark horse to you,”’ she added satirically.

They stood aside, forgetful. As if a little stunned, they
both were motionless, barely conscious. The little conflict
into which they had fallen had torn their consciousness and
left them like two impersonal forces, there in contact.

He became aware of the lapse. He wanted to say some-_
thing, to get on to a new more ordinary footing.

** You know,” he said, ‘* that I am having rooms here
at the mill? Don’t you think we can have some good ~
times P””

** Oh are you?” she said, ignoring all his implication of
admitted intimacy.

He adjusted himself at once, became normally distant.

*¢ If I find I can live sufficiently by myself,’’ he continued,
** T shall give up my work altogether. It has become dead
tome. I don’t believe in the humanity I pretend to be part
of, I don’t care a straw for the social ideals I live by, I hate
the dying organic form of social mankind—so it can’t be
anything but trumpery, to work at education. I shall drop
it as soon as I am clear enough—to-morrow perhaps—and
be by myself.”’

** Have you enough to live on?’’ asked Ursula.

“* Yes: lve about four hundred a year. That makes it
easy for me.’

There was a pause.

** And what about Hermione ?”’ asked Ursula.

** That’s over, finally—a pure failure, and never could
have been anything else.’

‘‘ But you still know each other?”

** We could hardly pretend to be strangers, could we ?”’

There was a stubborn pause.

** But isn’t that a half-measure ?’”’ asked Ursula at length.

** T don’t think so,’’ he said. ‘* You’ll be able to tell me
ifiab.is.*?

Again there was a pause of some minutes’ duration. He —
was thinking.

** One must throw everything away, everythin tee
everything go, to get the one last thing one wants,”’ he said.

** What thing ?”’ she asked in challenge.

** T don’t know—freedom together,”’ he said.

AN ISLAND 137

She had wanted him to say ‘ love.’

There was heard a loud barking of the dogs below. He
seemed disturbed by it. She did not notice. Only she
though he seemed uneasy.

** As a matter of fact,’’ he said, in rather a small voice,
** IT believe that is Hermione come now, with Gerald Crich.
She wanted to see the rooms before they are furnished.”’

** I know,” said Ursula. ‘‘ She will superintend the fur-
nishing for you.”’

** Probably. Does it matter ?’’

** Oh no, I should think not,’ said Ursula. ‘* Though
personally, I can’t bear her. I think she is a lie, if you like,
you who are always talking about lies.”” Then she rumin-
ated for a moment, when she broke out: ‘* Yes, and I do
mind if she furnishes your reooms—I do mind. I mind that
you keep her hanging on at all.’’ .

He was silent now, frowning.

** Perhaps,” he said. ‘* I don’t want her to furnish the
rooms here—and I don’t keep her hanging on. Only, I
needn’t be churlish to her, need I? At any rate, I shall
have to go down and see them now. You’ll come, won’t
you ?”’

** I don’t think so,” she said coldly and irresolutely.

** Won’t you? Yesdo. Come and see the rooms as well.
Do come.”’

CHAP: XII. CARPETTING

HE set off down the bank, and she went unwillingly with
him. Yet she would not have stayed away, either.

** We know each other well, you and I, already,’’ he
said. She did not answer.

In the large darkish kitchen of the mill, the laborer’s wife
was talking shrilly to Hermione and Gerald, who stood, he
in white and she in a glistening bluish foulard, strangely
luminous in the dusk of the room; whilst from the cages on
the walls, a dozen or more canaries sang at the top of their
voices. The cages were all placed round a small square win-
dow at the back, where the sunshine came in, a beautiful
beam, filtering through green leaves of a tree. The voice
of Mrs Salmon shrilled against the noise of the birds, which
rose ever more wild and triumphant, and the woman’s voice
went up and up against them, and the birds replied with
wild animation.

** Here’s Rupert! ’’ shouted Gerald in the midst of the
din. He was suffering badly, being very sensitive in the
ear. |

**Q-o-h them birds, they won’t let you speak—! ”
shrilled the laborer’s wife in disgust. ‘* Ill cover them up.”’

And she darted here and there, throwing a duster, an
apron, a towel, a table-cloth over the cages of the birds.

** Now will you stop it, and let a body speak for your
row,’’ she said, still in a voice that was too high.

The party watched her. Soon the cages were covered,
they had a strange funereal look. But from under the
towels odd defiant trills and bubblings still shook out.

‘© Oh, they won’t go on,’”’ said Mrs Salmon reassuringly.
** They’ll go to sleep now.”’

** Really,’’ said Hermione, politely.

** They will,’’ said Gerald. ‘* They will go to sleep auto-
matically, now the impression of evening is produced.”’

** Are they so easily deceived ?’? cried Ursula.

** Oh, yes,” replied Gerald. ‘* Don’t you know the story
of Fabre, who, when he was a boy, put a hen’s head under
her wing, and she straight away went to sleep? It’s quite
true.’’

| 188

CARPETTING 139

** And did that make him a naturalist ?’? asked Birkin.

** Probably,’’ said Gerald.

Meanwhile Ursula was peeping under one of the cloths.
There sat the canary in a corner, bunched and fluffed up for
sleep.

** How ridiculous! ’”? she cried. ‘* It really thinks the
night has come! How absurd! Really, how can one have
any respect for a.creature that is so easily taken in! ”

** Yes”? sang Hermione, coming also to look. She put
her hand on Ursula’s arm and chuckled a low laugh. ‘“‘ Yes,
doesn’t he look comical? ”? she chuckled. ‘* Like a stupid
husband.”’

Then, with her hand still on Ursula’s arm, she drew her
away, saying, in her mild sing-song :

** How did you come here? We saw Gudrun too.”’

** T came to look at the pond,” said Ursula, ** and I found
Mr Birkin there.’ _

** Did you? This is quite a Brangwen land, isn’t it! ’’

** I’m afraid I hoped so,”’ said Ursula. ‘‘ I ran here for
refuge, ishanty I saw you down the lake, just putting
off. 99

** Did you! And now we’ve run you to earth.”’

Hermione’s eyelids lifted with an uncanny movement,
amused but overwrought. She had always her strange,
rapt look, unnatural and irresponsible.

** T was going on,”’ said Ursula. ‘* Mr Birkin wanted me
to see the rooms. Isn’t it delightful to live here? It is
perfect.”’

** Yes,’ said Hermione, abstractedly. Then she turned
right away from Ursula, ceased to know her existence.

** How do you feel, Rupert?’ she sang in a new, affec-
tionate tone, to Birkin.

** Very well,’’ he replied.

** Were you quite comfortable ?’’ The curious, sinister,
rapt look was on Hermione’s face, she shrugged her bosom
in a convulsed MOvEMeny, and seemed like one half in a
trance.

** Quite bumatortable.’? he replied.

There was a long pause, whilst Hermione looked at him
for a long time, from under her heavy, drugged eyelids.

** And you think you’ll be happy here ?”’ she said at last.

** 1’m sure I shall.”’

** I’m sure I shall do anything for him as I can,”’ said the

140 WOMEN IN LOVE

laborer’s wife. ‘* And I’m sure our mester will; so I hope
as he’ll find himself comfortable.’’

Hermione turned and looked at her slowly.

** Thank you so much,” she said, and then she turned
completely away again. She recovered her position, and
lifting her face towards him, and addressing him exclu-
sively, she said :

** Have you measured the rooms ?”’

** No,” he said, ** I’ve been mending the punt.”

** Shall we do it now?’ she said slowly, balanced and
dispassionate.

** Have you got a tape measure, Mrs Salmon ?’’ he said,
turning to the woman.

** Yes sir, I think I can find one,”’ replied the woman,
bustling immediately to a basket. ‘‘ This is the only one
I’ve got, if it will do.”

Hermione took it, though it was offered to him.

** Thank you so much,” she said. ‘* It will do very
nicely. Thank you so much.’? Then she turned to Birkin,
saying with a little gay movement: ‘°* Shall we do it now,
Rupert ?’’

** What about the others, they’ll be bored,’’ he said re-
luctantly.

** Do you mind?” said Hermione, turning to Ursula and
Gerald vaguely.

** Not in the least,”’ they replied.

*¢ Which room shall we do first ?’’ she said, turning again
to Birkin, with the same gaiety, now she was going to do
something with him.

** We'll take them as they come,”’ he said.

** Should I be getting your teas ready, while you do
that?’? said the laborer’s wife, also gay because she had
something to do.

** Would you?’’ said Hermione, turning to her with the
curious motion of intimacy that seemed to envelop the
woman, draw her almost to Hermione’s breast, and which
left the others standing apart. ‘*I should be so glad.
Where shall we have it?”

‘* Where would you like it? Shall it be in here, or out on
the grass ?”’

** Where shall we have tea?’’? sang Hermione to the com-
pany at large.

** On the bank by the pond. And well carry the things

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4 aria as oot Shad Riel tia ee Se ie ean i ea a

CARPETTING 141

up, if you’ll just get them ready, Mrs Salmon,” said Birkin. |
| ** All right,”’ said the pleased woman.

The party moved down the passage into the front room.
It was empty, but clean and sunny. There was a window
looking on to the tangled front garden.

‘¢ This is the dining room,’’ said Hermione. ‘“* We'll
measure it this way, Rupert—you go down there— ”’

** Can’t I do it for you,’’ said Gerald, coming to take the
end of the tape.

** No, thank you,’’ cried Hermione, stooping to the
ground in her bluish, brilliant foulard. It was a great joy
to her to do things, and to have the ordering of the job,
with Birkin. He obeyed her subduedly. Ursula and

‘ Gerald looked on. It was a peculiarity of Hermione’s, that
at every moment, she had one intimate, and turned all the
rest of those present into onlookers. This raised her into a
state of triumph.

They measured and discussed in the dining-room, and
Hermione decided what the floor coverings must be. It
sent her into a strange, convulsed anger, to be thwarted.
Birkin always let her have her way, for the moment.

Then they moved across, through the hall, to the other
front room, that was a little smaller than the first.

** This is the study,’’ said Hermione. ‘‘ Rupert, I have a
rug that I want you to have for here. Will you let me give
it to you? Do—I want to give it you.”’

** What is it like ?’’ he asked ungraciously.

** You haven’t seen it. It is chiefly rose red, then blue,
a metallic, mid-blue, and a very soft dark blue. I think
you would like it. Do you think you would ?’’

' ** Tt sounds very nice,’’ he replied. ‘*‘ What is it?
Oriental? With a pile ?’’

** Yes. Persian! It is made of camel’s hair, silky. I
think it is called Bergamos—twelve feet by seven—. Do
you think it will do?’

** It would do,’”’ he said. ‘* But why should you give
me an expensive rug? I can manage perfectly well with
my old Oxford Turkish.”’ |

** But may I give it to you? Do let me.’’

** How much did it cost ?’’

She looked at him, and said :

**T don’t remember. It was quite cheap.”’

He looked at her, his face set.

4

142 WOMEN IN LOVE.

** T don’t want to take it, Hermione,”’ he said.

** Do let me give it to the rooms,’’ she said, going up to
him and putting her hand on his arm lightly, pleadingly.
** T shall be so disappointed.”

** You know I don’t want you to give me things,’’ he re-
peated helplessly.

** I don’t want to give you things,’’ she said teasingly.
** But will you have this ?’’

** All right,’’ he said, defeated, and she triumphed.

They went upstairs. There were two bedrooms to cor-
respond with the rooms downstairs. One of them was half
furnished, and Birkin had evidently slept there. Hermione
went round the room carefully, taking in every detail, as if

absorbing the evidence of his presence, in all the inanimate

things. She felt the bed and examined the coverings.

** Are you sure you were quite comfortable ?’’ she said,
pressing the pillow.

** Perfectly,’’ he replied coldly.

** And were you warm? There is no down quilt. I am
sure you need one. You mustn’t have a great pressure of
clothes.’’

** I’ve got one,”’ he said. ‘* It is coming down.”’

They measured the rooms, and lingered over every con- ©

sideration. Ursula stood at the window and watched the
woman carrying the tea up the bank to the pond. She
hated the palaver Hermione made, she wanted to drink tea,
she wanted anything but this fuss and business.

At last they all mounted the grassy bank, to the picnic.
Hermione poured out tea. She ignored now Ursula’s pre-

sence. And Ursula, recovering from her ill-humour, turned

to Gerald saying :

** Oh, I hated you so much the other day, Mr Crich.’’

** What for ?’’ said Gerald, wincing slightly away.

** For treating your horse so badly. Oh, I hated you so
much ! ”°

** What did he do?’? sang Hermione.

** He made his lovely sensitive Arab horse stand with him
at the railway-crossing whilst a horrible lot of trucks went
by ; and the poor thing, she was in a perfect frenzy, a perfect
agony. It was the most horrible sight you can imagine.”’

‘* Why did you do it, Gerald ?’? asked Hermione, calm
and interrogative.

‘* She must learn to stand—what use is she to me in this

rr ¥ Ceres fel) ee Ci te ‘a oA elt te
4 Paes Wea Sth, MAA HSER fan ee

CARPETTING 143
country, if she shies and goes off every time an engine >
_whistles.”’ |
— * But why inflict unnecessary torture?’’ said Ursula.
** Why make her stand all that time at the crossing? You
might just as well have ridden back up the road, and saved
all that horror. Her sides were bleeding where you had
spurred her. It was too horrible—! ”

Gerald stiffened.

** IT have to use her,’ he replied. ‘* And if I’m going to
be sure af her at all, she’]l have to learn to stand noises.”’

*¢ Why should she ?”’ cried Ursula in a passion. ‘* She is
a living creature, why should she stand anything, just be-
cause you choose to make her? She has as much right to
her own being, as you have to yours.”’

** There I disagree,’’ said Gerald. ‘* I consider that mare
is there for my use. Not because I bought her, but because
that is the natural order. It is more natural for a man to
take a horse and use it as he likes, than for him to go down
on his knees to it, begging it to do as it wishes, and to fulfil
its own marvellous nature.’

Ursula was just breaking out, when Hermione lifted her
face and began, in her musing sing-song :

** I do think—I do really think we must have the courage
to use the lower animal life for our needs. I do think there
is something wrong, when we look on every living creature
as if it were ourselves. I do feel, that it is false to project
our own feelings on every animate creature. It is a lack of
discrimination, a lack of criticism.’’ |

** Quite,’’ said Birkin sharply. ‘* Nothing is so detest-
able as the maudlin attributing of human feelings and con-
sciousness to animals.”’

** Yes,”’ said Hermione, wearily, ‘* we must really take a
position. Either we are going to use the animals, or they
will use us.” |

** That’s a fact,’ said Gerald. ‘* A horse has got a will
like a man, though it has no mind, strictly. And if your
will isn’t master, then the horse is master of you. And this
is a thing I can’t help. I can’t help being master of the
horse.’ |

** Tf, only we could learn how to use our will,”’ said Her-
mione, ‘* we could do anything. The will can cure any-
thing, and put anything right. That I am convinced of—
if only we use the will properly, intelligibly.’’

144 WOMEN IN LOVE

** What do you mean by using the will properly?’ said
Birkin.

** A very great doctor taught me,”’ she said, addressing
Ursula and Gerald vaguely. ‘* He told me-for instance,
that to cure oneself of a bad habit, one should force oneself
to do it, when one would not do it:—make oneself do it—
and then the habit would disappear.’

** How do you mean ?”’ said Gerald.

** If you bite your nails, for example. Then, when you
don’t want to bite your nails, bite them, make yourself bite |
them. And you would find the habit was broken.”

** Is that so?’’ said Gerald.

** Yes. And in so many things, I have made myself
well. I was a very queer and nervous girl. And by learn-
ing to use my will, simply by using my will, 1 made myself
right.”’

Ursula looked all the while at Hermione,‘as she spoke in
her slow, dispassionate, and yet strangely tense voice. A
curious thrill went over the younger woman. Some strange,
dark, convulsive power was in Hermione, fascinating and
repelling.

** It is fatal to use the will like that,’’ cried Birkin
harshly, ‘‘ disgusting. Such a will is an obscenity.”

Hermione looked at him for a long time, with her shadow-
ed, heavy eyes. Her face was soft and pale and thin, almost
phosphorescent, her jaw was lean.

“* I’m sure it isn’t,’? she said at length. There always
seemed an interval, a strange split between what she seemed
to feel and experience, and what she actually said and
thought. She seemed to catch her thoughts at length from
off the surface of a maelstrom of chaotic black emotions and
reactions, and Birkin was always filled with repulsion, she
caught so infallibly, her will never failed her. Her voice
was always dispassionate and tense, and perfectly confident.
Yet she shuddered with a sense of nausea, a sort of sea-
sickness that always threatened to overwhelm her mind.
But her mind remained unbroken, her will was still perfect.
It almost sent Birkin mad. But he would never, never dare
to break her will, and let loose the maelstrom of her sub-
consciousness, and see her in her ultimate madness.. Yet
he was always striking at her.

‘© And of course,’”’ he said to Gerald, ‘* horses haven’t
got a complete will, like human beings. A horse has no one

CARPETTING 45

will. Every horse, strictly, has two wills. With one will,
it wants to put itself in the human power completely—and
with the other, it wants to be free, wild. The two wills
sometimes lock—you know that, if ever you’ve felt a horse
bolt, while you’ve been driving it.’’

** T have felt a horse bolt while I was driving it,’ said.
Gerald, ‘** but it didn’t make me know it had two wills. I
only knew it was frightened.’’

Hermione had ceased to listen. She simply became
oblivious when these subjects were started.

** Why should a horse want to put itself in the human
power?’’ asked Ursula. ‘* That is quite incomprehensible
tome. I don’t believe it ever wanted it.”’

** Yes it did. It’s the last, perhaps highest, love-
impulse : resign your will to the higher being,” said Birkin.

** What curious notions you have of love,’’ jeered Ursula.

** And woman is the same as horses: two wills act in
opposition inside her. With one will, she wants to subject
herself utterly. With the other she wants to bolt, and
pitch her rider to perdition.”’

** Then I’m a bolter,’’ said Ursula, with a burst of
laughter.

** It’s a dangerous thing to domesticate even horses, let
alone women,’ said Birkin. ‘‘ The dominant principle has
some rare antagonists.”’

** Good thing too,’’ said Ursula.

** Quite,’’ said Gerald, with a faint smile. ‘** There’s
more fun.”’ ;

Hermione could bear no more. - She rose, saying in her
easy sing-song :

_* Tsn’t the evening beautiful! I get filled sometimes
with such a great sense of beauty, that I feel I can hardly
bear it.”’

Ursula, to whom she had appealed, rose with her, moved
to the last impersonal depths. And Birkin seemed to her
almost a monster of hateful arrogance. She went with Her-
mione along the bank of the pond, talking of beautiful,
soothing things, picking the gentle cowslips.

** Wouldn’t you like a dress,’’ said Ursula to Hermione, |

of this yellow spotted with orange—a cotton dress ???

** Yes,’’ said Hermione, stopping and looking at the
flower, letting the thought come home to her and soothe
her. ‘* Wouldn’t it be pretty? I should love it.”’

K

146 WOMEN IN LOVE

And she turned smiling to Ursula, in a feeling of real
affection.

But Gerald remained with Birkin, wanting to probe him
to the bottom, to know what he meant by the dual will in
horses. A flicker of excitement danced on Gerald’s face.

Hermione and Ursula strayed on together, united in a
sudden bond of deep affection and closeness.

** IT really do not want to be forced into all this criticism
and analysis of life. I really do want to see things in their
entirety, with their beauty left to them, and their wholeness,
their natural holiness. Don’t you feel it, don’t you feel you
can’t be tortured into any more knowledge?’ said Her-
mione, stopping in front of Ursula, and turning to her with
clenched fists thrust downwards.

** Yes,”’ said Ursula. ‘‘ Ido. I am sick of all this pok-
ing and prying.”’

** I’m so glad you are. Sometimes,’’ said Hermione,
again stopping arrested in her progress and turning to
Ursula, ‘f sometimes I wonder if I ought to submit to all
this realisation, if 1 am not being weak in rejecting it. But
I feel I can’t—I can’t. It seems to destroy everything.
All the beauty and the—and the true holiness is destroyed,
—and I feel I can’t live without them.”

** And it would be simply wrong to live without them,”’
cried Ursula. ‘‘ No, it is so irreverent to think that every-
thing must be realised in the head. Really, something must
be left to the Lord, there always is and always will be.”’

** Yes,’’ said Hermione, reassured like a child, ** it should,
shouldn’t it? And Rupert— ”’ she lifted her face to the
sky, in a muse— he can only tear things to pieces. He
really is like a boy who must pull everything to pieces to
see how it is made. And I can’t think it is right—it does
seem so irreverent, as you say.’

‘*¢ Like tearing open a bud to see what the flower will be
like,’’ said Ursula.

‘© Yes. And that kills everything, doesn’t it P2.cay
doesn’t allow any possibility of flowering.”’

** Of course not,’”’ said Ursula. ‘* It is purely destruc-
tive.””

** It is, isn’t it! *’

Hermione looked long and slow at Ursula, seeming to
accept confirmation from her. Then the two women were
silent. As soon as they were in accord, they began

pikes aie asia
ne CARPETTING iis

mutually to mistrust each other. In spite of herself, Ursula
felt herself recoiling from Hermione. It was all she could
do to restrain her revulsion.

They returned to the men, like two conspirators who have
withdrawn to come to an agreement. Birkin looked up at
them. Ursula hated him for his cold watchfulness. But
he said nothing.

** Shall we be going?’? said Hermione. ‘* Rupert, you
are coming to Shortlands to dinner? Will you come at
once, will you come now, with us ?’’

** I’m not dressed,’”’ replied Birkin. ‘* And you know
Gerald stickles for convention.’’

** I don’t stickle for it,” said Gerald. ‘* But if you’d
got as sick as I have of rowdy go-as-you-please in the house,
you’d prefer it if people were peaceful and conventional, at
least at meals.”’

** All right,”? said Birkin.

** But can’t we wait for you while you dress ?’’ persisted
Hermione.

** Tf you like.”’

He rose to go indoors. Ursula said she would take her
leave.

** Only,’’ she said, turning to Gerald, ‘* I must say that,
however man is lord of the beast and the fowl, I still don’t
think he has any right to violate the feelings of the inferior
creation. I still think it would have been much more sen-
sible and nice of you if you’d trotted back up the road while
the train went by, and been considerate.”’

** I see,” said Gerald, smiling, but somewhat annoyed.
** I must remember another time.”’

** They all think I’m an interfering female,’’ thought
Ursula to herself, as she went away. But she was in arms
against them. |

She ran home plunged in thought. She had been very
much moved by Hermione, she had really come into contact
with her, so that there was a sort of league between the two
women. And yet she could not bear her. But she put the
thought away. ‘* She’s really good,”’ she said to herself.
** She really wants what is right.”’ And she tried to féel at
one with Hermione, and to shut off from Birkin. She was
strictly hostile to him. But she was held to him by some
bond, some deep principle. This at once irritated her and
saved her.

ba the conflict lay, no one could say.

to the death between theses to new life : "though ey

CHAP: XIII. MINO

THE days went by, and she received no sign. Was he going
to ignore her, was he going to take no further notice of her
secret? A dreary weight of anxiety and acrid bitterness
settled on her. And yet Ursula knew she was only deceiv-
ing herself, and that he would proceed. She said no word

- to anybody.

Then, sure enough, there came a note from him, asking
if she would come to tea, with Gudrun, to his rooms in town.

** Why does he ask Gudrun as well?’’ she asked herself
at once. ‘* Does he want to protect himself, or does he
think I would not go alone ?’’

She was tormented by the thought that he wanted to pro-
tect himself. But at the end of all, she only said to herself :

** 1 don’t want Gudrun to be there, because I want him to
say something more to me. So I shan’t tell Gudrun any-
thing about it, and I shall go alone. Then I shall know.”’

She found herself sitting on the tram-car, mounting up the
hill going out of the town, to the place where he had his
lodging. She seemed to have passed into a kind of dream
world, absolved from the conditions of actuality. She
watched the sordid streets of the town go by beneath her, as
if she were a spirit disconnected from the material universe.
What had it all to do with her? She was palpitating and
formless within the flux of the ghost life. She could not
consider any more, what anybody would say of her or think
about her. People had passed out of her range, she was
absolved. She had fallen strange and dim, out of the
sheath of the material life, as a berry falls from. the only
world it has ever known, down out of the sheath on to the
real unknown. |

Birkin was standing in the middle of the room, when she
was shown in by the landlady. He too was moved outside
himself. She saw him agitated and shaken, a frail, unsub-
stantial body silent like the node of some violent force, that
came out from him and shook her almost into a swoon.

** You are alone ?”’ he said.

** Yes—Gudrun could not come.”’

He instantly guessed why.

149

27 ey au 6 86 8 a 4a ae
PRAT (ee EY PPL yom a alle ena

5 Ae Bei tere le? BP 4, orang

5 te fa Ro

150 WOMEN IN LOVE.

- And they were both seated in silence, in the terrible ten-
sion of the room. She was aware that it was a pleasant
room, full of light and very restful in its form—aware also of
a fuchsia tree, with dangling scarlet and purple flowers.

** How nice the fuchsias are! ’’ she said, to break the
silence. .

** Aren’t they! Did you think I had forgotten what I
said ?”?

A swoon went over Ursula’s mind.

** IT don’t want you to remember it—if you don’t want
to,”’ she struggled to say, through the dark mist that
covered her. -

There was silence for some moments.

** No,” he said. ‘* It isn’t that. Only—if we are going
to know each other, we must pledge ourselves for ever. If
we are going to make a relationship, even of friendship,
there must be something final and infallible about it.”’

There was a clang of mistrust and almost anger in his
voice. She did not answer. Her heart was too much con-
tracted. She could not have spoken.

Seeing she was not going to reply, he continued, almost
bitterly, giving himself away :

** I can’t say it is love I have to offer—and it isn’t love
I want. It is something much more impersonal and harder, —
—and rarer.””

There was a silence, out of which she said :

** You mean you don’t love me ?”’

She suffered furiously, saying that.

** Yes, if you like to put it like that. Though perhaps
that isn’t true. I don’t know. At any rate, I don’t feel
the emotion of love for you—no, and I don’t want to. Be-
cause it gives out in the last issues.”’

** Love gives out in the last issues?’? she asked, feeling
numb to the lips.

** Yes, it does. At the very last, one is alone, beyond the
influence of love. There is a real impersonal me, that is
beyond love, beyond any emotional relationship. So it is
with you. But we want to delude ourselves that love is the
root. It isn’t. It is only the branches. The root is
beyond love, a naked kind of isolation, an isolated me, that
does not meet and mingle, and never can.”’

She watched him with wide, troubled eyes. His face was
incandescent in its abstract earnestness.

MINO : 151

** And you mean you can’t love ?’’ she asked, in trepida-
tion.

** Yes, if you like. Ihave loved. But there is a beyond,
where there is not love.”’

She could not submit to this. She felt it swooning over
her. But she could not submit.

** But how do you know—if you have never really
loved ?”’ she asked.

** It is true, what I say; there is a beyond, in you, in me,
which is further than love, beyond the scope, as stars are
beyond the scope of vision, some of them.”’

** Then there is no love,’’ cried Ursula.

** Ultimately, no, there is something else. But, ulti-
mately, there is no love.’

Ursula was given over to this statement for some
moments. Then she half rose from her chair, saying, in a
final, repellant voice :

** Then let me go home—what am I doing here ?”’

** There is the door,’’ he said. ‘* You are a free agent.”’

He was suspended finely and perfectly in this extremity.
She hung motionless for some seconds, then she sat down
again.

** If there is no love, what is there?’’ she cried, almost
jeering.

** Something,”’ he said, looking at her, battling with his
soul, with all his might. |

*¢ What ?”°

He was silent for a long time, unable to be in communica-
tion with her while she was in this state of opposition.

** There is,’’ he said, in a voice of pure abstraction, ‘* a
final me which is stark and impersonal and beyond respon-
sibility. So there is a final you. And it is there I would
want to meet you—not in the emotional, loving plane—but
there beyond, where there is no speech and no terms of
agreement. There we are two stark, unknown beings, two
utterly strange creatures, I would want to approach you,
and you me. And there could be no obligation, because
there is no standard for action there, because no under-
standing has been reaped from that plane. It is quite in-
human,—so there can be no calling to book, in any form
whatsoever—because one is outside the pale of all that is
accepted, and nothing known applies. One can only follow
the impulse, taking that which lies in front, and respon-

152 ; WOMEN IN LOVE
sible for nothing, asked for nothing, giving nothing, only —
each taking according to the primal desire.’’

Ursula listened to this speech, her mind dumb and almost
senseless, what he said was so unexpected and so untoward.

* It is just purely selfish,”’ she said.

** Tf it is pure, yes. But it isn’t selfish at all. Because I
don’t know what I want of you. I deliver myself over to
the unknown, in coming to you, I am without reserves or
defences, stripped entirely, into the unknown. Only there
needs the pledge between us, that we will both cast off every-
thing, cast off ourselves even, and cease to be, so that that
which is perfectly ourselves can take place in us.”’

She pondered along her own line of thought.

** But it is because you love me, that you want me?”
she persisted.

** No it isn’t. It is because I believe in you—if I do

believe in you.”’
- * Aren’t you sure ?”? she laughed, suddenly hurt.

He was looking at her Soncuee scarcely heeding what
she said.

** Yes, I must believe in you, or else I shouldn’t be here
saying this,’’ he replied. ‘* But that is all the proof I have.
I don’t feel any very strong belief at this particular
moment.”’

She disliked him for this sudden relapse into weariness and
faithlessness.

** But don’t you think me good-looking ?’’ she persisted,
in a mocking voice.

He looked at her, to see if he felt that she was good-
looking.

** I don’t feel that you’re good-looking,”’ he said.

** Not even attractive ?’? she mocked, bitingly.

He knitted his brows in sudden exasperation.

** Don’t you see that it’s not a question of visual apprecia-
tion in the least,’? he cried. ‘* I don’t want to see you.
I’ve seen plenty of women, I’m sick and weary of seeing
them. I want a woman I don’t see.”’

** I’m sorry I can’t oblige you by being invisible,’’ she
laughed.

© Yes,”? he said, ** you are invisible to me, if you don’t
force me to be visually aware of you. But I don’t want to
see you or hear you.’

‘* What did you ask me to tea for, then?’’ she mocked.

eee ae Asal pads Be ead AN fom as as gee GF a SP i ane) pA)

MINO | 158

But he would take no notice of her. He was talking to
himself.

‘<1 want to find you, where you don’t know your own
existence, the you that your common self denies utterly.
But I don’t want your good looks, and I don’t want your
womanly feelings, and I don’t want your thoughts nor
opinions nor your ideas—they are all bagatelles to me.”’
** You are very conceited, Monsieur,’? she mocked.
** How do you know what my womanly feelings are, or my

_ thoughts or my ideas? You don’t even know what I think

™

of you now.”’

** Nor do I care in the slightest.”’

** I think you are very silly. I think you want to tell
me you love me, and you go all this way round to do it.”’

** All right,”’ he said, looking up with sudden exaspera-
tion. ‘* Now go away then, and leave me alone. I don’t
want any more of your meretricious persifilage.”’

** Is it really persiflage ?’’ she mocked, her face really re-
laxing into laughter. She interpreted it, that he had made
a deep confession of love to her. But he was so absurd in
his words, also.

They were silent for many minutes, she was pleased and
elated like a child. His concentration broke, he began to
look at her simply and naturally.

** What I want is a strange conjunction with you— ie
said quietly ; ‘* —not meeting and mingling ;—you are quite
right :—but an equilibrium, a pure balance of two single
beings :—as the stars balance each other.”’

She looked at him. He was very earnest, and earnest-
ness was always rather ridiculous, commonplace, to her. It
made her fee! unfree and uncomfortable. Yet she liked him
so much. But why drag in the stars.

** Isn’t this rather sudden ?’? she mocked.

He began to laugh.

** Best to read the terms of the contrat! before we sign,”’

he said.

A young grey cat that had been sleeping on the sofa

jumped down and stretched, rising on its long legs, and
arching its slim back. Then it sat considering’ for a

moment, erect and kingly. And then, like a dart, it had
shot out of the room, through the open window-doors, and
into the garden.

** What’s he after?’ said Birkin, rising.

pe 4.6 aA, ries i & aR UT ae Re Bid ai bite? SIMS bel So, f +
, AY LS hie PT ERM acre re ee

154 WOMEN IN LOVE
The young cat trotted lordly down the path, waving his
tail. He was an ordinary tabby with white paws, a slender —
young gentleman. A crouching, fluffy, brownish-grey cat
was stealing up the side of the fence. The Mino walked
statelily up to her, with manly nonchalance. She crouched
before him and pressed herself on the ground in humility, a
fluffy soft outcast, looking up at him with wild eyes that
were green and lovely as great jewels. He looked casually
down on her. So she crept a few inches further, proceed-
ing on her way to the back door, crouching in a wonderful,

soft, self-obliterating manner, and moving like a shadow.

He, going statelily on his slim legs, walked after her, then
suddenly, for pure excess, he gave her a light cuff with his
paw on the side of her face. She ran off a few steps, like a
blown leaf along the ground, then crouched unobtrusively,
in submissive, wild patience. The Mino pretended to take
no notice of her. He blinked his eyes superbly at the land-
scape. In a minute she drew herself together and moved
softly, a fleecy brown-grey shadow, a few paces forward.
She began to quicken her pace, in a moment she would be
gone like a dream, when the young grey lord sprang before
her, and gave her a light handsome.cuff. She subsided at
once, submissively.

** She is a wild cat,’’ said Birkin. ‘* She has come in
from the woods.”’

The eyes of the stray cat flared round for a moment, like
great green fires staring ‘at Birkin. Then she had rushed in
a soft swift rush, half way down the garden. There she
paused to look round. The Mino turned his face in pure ©
superiority to his master, and slowly closed his eyes, stand-
ing in statuesque young perfection. The wild cat’s round,
green, wondering eyes were staring all the while like un- ©
canny fires. Then again, like a shadow, she slid towards
the kitchen.

In a lovely springing leap, like a wind, the Mino was upon
her, and had boxed her twice, very definitely, with a white,
delicate fist. She sank and slid back, unquestioning. He
walked after her, and cuffed her once or twice, leisurely,
with sudden little blows of his magic white paws.

** Now why does he do that?’ cried Ursula in indigna-
tion. .

‘¢ They are on intimate terms,”’ said Birkin.

‘© And is that why he hits her ?’’

Ph eee

MINO | 155

** Yes,’’ laughed Birkin, ** I think he wants to make it
quite obvious to her.”’

** Isn’t it horrid of him! ”’ she cried; and going out into
the garden she called to the Mino :

** Stop it, don’t bully. Stop hitting her.’’

The stray cat vanished like a swift, invisible shadow.
The Mino glanced at Ursula, then looked from her disdain-
fully to his master.

** Are you a bully, Mino ?”’ Birkin asked.

The young slim cat looked at him, and slowly narrowed
its eyes. Then it glanced away at the landscape, looking
into the distance as if completely oblivious of the two
human beings.

** Mino,”’ said Ursula, *‘ I don’t like you. You are a
bully like all males.’’

** No,”’ said Birkin, ** he is justified. He is not a bully.
He is only insisting to the poor stray that she shall acknow-
ledge him as a sort of fate, her own fate : because you can
_see she is fluffy and promiscuous as the wind. I am with
him entirely. He wants superfine stability.’’ |

** Yes, I know! ”’ cried Ursula. ‘* He wants his own
way—I know what your fine words work down to—bossi-
ness, I call it, bossiness.’

The young cat again glanced at Birkin in disdain of the
noisy woman.

** I quite agree-with you, Miciotto,’”’ said Birkin to the
cat. °° Keep your male dignity, and your higher under-
standing.”’

Again the Mino narrowed his eyes as if he were looking at
the sun. Then, suddenly affecting to have no connection at
all with the two people, he went trotting off, with assumed
spontaneity and gaiety, his tail erect, his white feet
blithe.

‘** Now he will find the belle sauvage once more, and
entertain her with his superior wisdom,’’ laughed Birkin.

Ursula looked at the man who stood in the garden with
his hair blowing and his eyes smiling ironically, and she
cried :

** Oh it makes me so cross, this assumption of male
superiority ! And it is such a lie! One wouldn’t mind if
there were any justification for it.’’

** The wild cat,’? said Birkin, ‘‘ doesn’t mind. She per-
ceives that it is justified.’

ae Uke in ee eye a Give, Wee Fy A i ee’ are 2 Se Be te eee eee a? Vie
Rie AU Te Nie a er ae PS sgt MERE Caer eae MONT Aunty at oe,
q tag it ae ‘ 73 Gx cn ate Pe Si 5 iF
, F qi ey ane , ity ? " ie &:

156 WOMEN IN LOVE

mn Does she! *’ cried Ursula. ‘* And tell it to the Horse
Marines.’

‘ To at also.”? ;

** It is just like Gerald Crich with his Hotels lust for
bullying—a real Wille zur Macht—so base, so petty.”’

** T agree that the Wille zur Macht is a base and petty
thing. But with the Mino, it is the desire to bring this
female cat into a pure stable equilibrium, a transcendent
and abiding rapport with the single male. Whereas with-
out him, as you see, she is a mere stray, a fluffy sporadic bit
of chaos. It is a volonté de pouvoir, if you like, a will to
ability, taking pouvoir as a verb.’’

** Ah—! Sophistries! It’s the old Adam.”’

** Oh yes. . Adam kept Eve in the indestructible paradise, .
when he kept her single with himself, like a star in its orbit.”

** Yes—yes— ”’ cried Ursula, pointing her finger at him.
** There you are—a star in its orbit! A satellite—a satel-
lite of Mars—that’s what she is to be! There—there—
you’ve given yourself away! You want a satellite, Mars.
and his satellite! You’ve said it—you’ve said it—you’ve
dished yourself ! ”’

He stood smiling in frustration and amusement and irri-
tation and admiration and love. She was so quick, and so
lambent, like discernible fire, and so vindictive, and so rich
in her dangerous flamy sensitiveness.

** T’ve not said it at all,’’ he replied, ‘* if you will give

me a chance to speak.”’ a
** No, no!’ she cried. ‘* I won’t let you speak. You’ve
said it, a satellite, you’re not going to wriggle out of it.

- You’ve said it.”’

** You’ll never believe now that I haven’t said it,’’ he
answered. ‘* I neither implied nor indicated nor mentioned
a satellite, nor intended a satellite, never.”’

** You prevaricator ! ’ she cried, in real indignation.

** Tea is ready, sir,’’ said the landlady from the doorway.

They both looked at her, very much as the cats had looked
at them, a little while before.

** Thank you, Mrs Daykin.”’

An interrupted silence fell over the two of them, a
moment of breach.

‘© Come and have tea,’’ he said.

‘¢ Yes, I should love it,’’ she replied, gathering herself

together.

MINO 157

They sat facing each other across the tea table.

**I did not say, nor imply, a satellite. 1 meant two
single equal stars balanced in conjunction— ”’

** You gave yourself away, you gave away your little
game completely,’’ she cried, beginning at once to eat. He
saw that she would take no further heed of his es PA
tion, so he began to pour the tea.

** What good things to eat! * she cried.

** Take your own sugar,”’ he said.

He handed her her cup. He had everything so nice, such
pretty cups and plates, painted with mauve-lustre and
green, also shapely bowls and glass plates, and old spoons,
on a woven cloth of pale grey and black and purple. It
was very rich and fine. But Ursula could see Hermione’s
influence.

** Your things are so lovely ! ’’ she said, almost angrily.

** IT like them. It gives me real pleasure to use things
that are attractive in themselves—pleasant things. And
Mrs Daykin is good. She thinks everything is wonderful,
for my sake.’’

** Really,’? said Ursula, ‘‘ landladies are better than
wives, nowadays. ‘They certainly care a great deal more.
It is much more beautiful and complete here now, than if
you were married.”’

** But think of the emptiness within,’’ he laughed.

** No,”’ she said. ‘‘ I am jealous that men have such
perfect landladies and such beautiful lodgings. There is
nothing left them to desire.”’

** In the house-keeping way, we’ll hope not. It is dis-
gusting, people marrying for a home.”’

** Still,’? said Ursula, *‘ a man has very little need for a
woman now, has he ?P”’

** In outer things, maybe—except to share his bed and
bear his children. But essentially, there is just the same
need as there ever was. Only nobody takes the trouble to
be essential.”’

** How essential ?”’ she said.

** I do think,”’ he said, *‘ that the world is only held to-
gether by the mystic conjunction, the ultimate unison be-
tween people—a bond. And the immediate bond is between
man and woman.’’

** But it’s such old hat,’’ said Ursula. ‘* Why should
love be a bond? No, I’m not having any.’’

DN ee ents yy ee) eee ee ee ee
Ma tak SATE vila as Paid t yst
3 Wks coud. eke Se . Neh STEED iain 2a alk
% 4. at = bay. S, Me te ’ gm As rer 4

158 WOMEN IN LOVE

** If you are walking westward,’ he said, ‘* you forfeit —
the northern and eastward and southern direction. If you
admit a unison, you forfeit all the possibilities of chaos.”’

‘* But love is freedom,’’ she declared.

** Don’t cant to me,’’ he replied. ‘* Love is a direction
which excludes all other directions. It’s a freedom
together, if you like.’’

** No,”’ she said, ** love includes everything.”’

** Sentimental cant,’’ he replied. ‘* You want the state
of chaos, that’s all. It is ultimate nihilism, this freedom-
in-love business, this freedom which is love and love which
is freedom. As a matter of fact, if you enter into a pure
unison, it is irrevocable, and it is never pure till it is irre-
vocable. And when it is irrevocable, it is one way, like the
path of a star.”’

** Ha! ’? she cried bitterly. ‘‘It is the old dead
morality.”’ ;

** No,”’ he said, ‘* it is the law of creation. One is com-
mitted. One must commit oneself to a conjunction with
the other—for ever. But it is not selfless—it is a maintain-
ing of the self in mystic balance and integrity—like a star
balanced with another star.”’

** T don’t trust you when you drag in the stars,”’ she said.
** If you were quite true, it wouldn’t be necessary to be so
far-fetched.’ 3

** Don’t trust me then,”’ he said, angry. ‘‘ It is enough
that I trust myself.”’

‘* And that is where you make another mistake,” she re-
plied. ‘* You don’t trust yourself. You don’t fully believe
yourself what you are saying. You don’t really want this
conjunction, otherwise you wouldn’t talk so much about
it, you’d get it.”

He was suspended for a moment, arrested.

** How ?”’ he said.

‘* By just loving,”’ she retorted in defiance.

He was still a moment, in anger. Then he said.

‘* I tell you, I don’t believe in love like that. I tell you,
you want love to administer to your egoism, to subserve
you. Love is a process of subservience with you—and with
everybody. I hate it.’’

‘* No,” she cried, pressing back her head like a cobra,
her eyes flashing. ‘“ It is a process of pride—I want to be
proud— ” ' |

MINO 159

‘* Proud and subservient, proud and subservient, | know
you,’ he retorted dryly. ‘* Proud and subservient, then
subservient to the proud—lI know you and your love. It is
a tick-tack, tick-tack, a dance of opposites.”’

** Are you sure ?”? she mocked wickedly, ‘* what my love
is P??

** Yes, I am,’’ he retorted.

** So cocksure! ’’ she said. ‘* How can anybody ever be
right, who is so cocksure? It shows you are wrong.”’

He was silent in chagrin.

‘They had talked and struggled till they were both wearied
out.

** Tell me about yourself and your people,’ he said.

And she told him about the Brangwens, and about her
mother, and about Skrebensky, her first love, and about her
later experiences. He sat very still, watching her as she
talked. And he seemed to listen with reverence. Her face
was beautiful and full of baffled light as she told him all the
things that had hurt her or perplexed her so deeply. He
seemed to warm and comfort his soul at the beautiful light
of her nature.

** If she really could pledge herself,’’ he thought to him-
self, with passionate insistence but hardly any hope. Yet
a curious little irresponsible laughter appeared in his heart.

** We have all suffered so much,’’ he mocked, ironically.

She looked up at him, and a flash of wild gaiety went over
her face, a strange flash of yellow light coming from her
eyes.

** Haven’t we! * she cried, in a high, reckless cry. ‘* It
is almost absurd, isn’t it ?’’

es Quite absurd,’’ he said. ‘* Suffering bores me, any
more.’

** So it does me.”’

_ He was almost afraid of the mocking recklessness of her
splendid face. Here was one who would go to the whole
lengths of heaven or hell, whichever she had to go. And he
mistrusted her, he was afraid of a woman capable of such
abandon, such dangerous thoroughness of destructivity.
Yet he chuckled within himself also.

She came over to him and put her hand on his shoulder,
looking down at him with strange golden-lighted eyes, very
tender, but with a curious devilish !ook lurking underneath.

** Say you love me, say ‘ my love ’ to me,”’ she pleaded.

~it eins as bt ’ ei Arey ee ae ee a ee We ee 6 ee Oe eee le ete Oe. Ay eee ee
OC align Ce Bln oki ay Nae em bye Sane Ce ti ia ae ia
ing Me A Pa NURS ie a vigid oie is BL : re ‘ : an
PAKS. Bey Cla es vey

Nt et

160 WOMENINLOVE ©

He looked back into her eyes, and saw. His tac fickered”
with sardonic comprehension. _

**T love you right enough,”’ he said, grimly. ‘* But I
want it to be something else.”’

** But why? But why?” she insisted, bending her won-
derful luminous face to him. ‘* Why isn’t it enough?”

‘* Because we can go one better,’? he said, putting his
arms round her. |

** No, we can’t,”’ she said, in a strong, voluptuous voice —
of yielding. ‘“ We can only love each other. Say * my
love ’ to me, say it, say it.”’

She put her arms round his neck. He enfolded her, and
kissed her subtly, murmuring in a subtle voice of love, and
irony, and submission :

** Yes,—my love, yes,—my love. Let love be enough
then. I love you then—I love you. I’m bored by the
rest.”’

** Yes,’’ she murmured, nestling very sweet and close to
him.

AS ea

ere :
ae
gen

SP -St

CHAP: XIV. WATER-PARTY

Every year Mr Crich gave a more or less public water-party
on the lake. There was a little pleasure-launch on Willey
Water and several rowing boats, and guests could take tea

_ either in the marquee that was set up in the grounds of the

house, or they could picnic in the shade of the great walnut-

_ tree at the boat-house by the lake. This year the staff of

the Grammar-School was invited, along with the chief offi-

_ Cials of the firm. Gerald and the younger Criches did not

—— SS

care for this party, but it had become customary now, and
it pleased the father, as being the only occasion when he
could gather some people of the district together in festivity

with him. For he loved to give pleasures to his dependents

and to those poorer than himself. But his children prefer-
red the company of their own equals in wealth. They hated
their inferiors’ humility or gratitude or awkwardness.

Nevertheless they were willing to attend at this festival,
as they had done almost since they were children, the more
so, as they all felt a little guilty now, and unwilling to
thwart their father any more, since he was so ill in health.
Therefore, quite cheerfully Laura prepared to take her
mother’s place as hostess, and Gerald assumed responsibility
for the amusements on the water.

Birkin had written to Ursula saying he expected to see her
at the party, and Gudrun, although she scorned the pat-
ronage of the Criches, would nevertheless accompany her
mother and father if the weather were fine.

The day came blue and full of sunshine, with little wafts
of wind. The sisters both wore dresses of white crépe, and
hats of soft grass. But Gudrun had a sash of brilliant black
and pink and yellow colour wound broadly round her waist,
and she had pink silk stockings, and black and pink and
yellow decoration on the brim of her hat, weighing it down
a little. She carried also a yellow silk coat over her arm,
so that she looked remarkable, like a painting from the
Salon. Her appearance was a sore trial to her father, who
said angrily :

** Don’t you think you might as well get yourself up for a
Christmas cracker, an’ ha’ done with it ?’’

L 161

162 WOMEN IN LOVE

But Gudrun looked handsome and brilliant, and she wore —
her clothes in pure defiance. When people stared at her,
and giggled after her, she made a point of saying loudly, to
Ursula :

** Regarde, regarde ces gens-l4! Ne sont-ils pas des
hiboux incroyables??? And with the words of French in
her mouth, she would look over her shoulder at the giggling
party.

** No, really, it’s impossible! ’? Ursula would reply dis- —
tinctly. And so the two girls took it out of their universal
enemy. But their father became more and more enraged.

Ursula was all snowy white, save that her hat was pink,
and entirely without trimming, and her shoes were dark
red, and she carried an orange-coloured coat. And in this
guise they were walking all the way to Shortlands, their
father and mother going in front.

They were laughing at their mother, who, dressed in a
summer material of black and purple stripes, and wearing a
hat of purple straw, was setting forth with much more of
the shyness and trepidation of a young girl than her daugh-
ters ever felt, walking demurely beside her husband, who,
as usual, looked rather crumpled in his best suit, as if he
were the father of a young family and had been holding the
baby whilst his wife got dressed.

** Look at the young couple in front,’’ said Gudrun
calmly. Ursula looked at her mother and father, and was
suddenly seized with uncontrollable laughter. The two girls
stood in the road and laughed till the tears ran down their
faces, as they caught sight again of the shy, unworldly
couple of their parents going on ahead.

** We are roaring at you, mother,”’ called Ursula, help-
lessly following after her parents.

Mrs Brangwen turned round with a slightly puzzled, ex-
asperated look. ‘* Oh indeed! *’ she said. ‘* What is there
so very funny about me, I should like to know?’

She could not understand that there could be anything
amiss with her appearance. She had a perfect calm suffi-
ciency, an easy indifference to any criticism whatsoever, as
if she were beyond it. Her clothes were always rather odd,
and as a rule slip-shod, yet she wore them with a perfect
ease and satisfaction. Whatever she had on, so long as she ~
was barely tidy, she was right, beyond remark; such an
aristocrat she was by instinct.

WATERPARTY 163

** You look so stately, like a country Baroness,’’ said

L Ursula, laughing with a little tenderness at her mother’s

naive puzzled air.

** Just like a country Baroness! ’’ chimed in Gudrun.
Now the mother’s natural hauteur became self-conscious,
and the girls shrieked again.

** Go home, you pair of idiots, great giggling idiots! ”’
cried the father inflamed with irritation.

** Mm-m-er! *? booed Ursula, pulling a face at his cross-

~ ness.

aaa

The yellow lights danced in his eyes, he leaned forward in
real rage.

** Don’t be so silly as to take any notice of the great
gabies,’’ said Mrs Brangwen, turning on her way.

** T’ll see if I’m going to be followed by a pair of giggling
yelling jackanapes— ’’ he cried vengefully.

The girls stood still, laughing helplessly at his fury, upon
the path beside the hedge.

** Why you’re as silly as they are, to take any notice,”
said Mrs Brangwen also becoming angry now he was really
enraged.

** There are some people coming, father,”’ cried Ursula,
with mocking warning. He glanced round quickly, and
went on to join his wife, walking stiff with rage. And the
girls followed, weak with laughter.

When the people had passed by, Brangwen cried in a loud,
stupid voice :

** I’m going back home if there’s any more of this. I’m
damned if I’m going to be made a fool of in this fashion, in
the public road.”’

He was really out of temper. At the sound of his blind,
vindictive voice, the laughter suddenly left the girls, and
their hearts contracted with contempt. They hated his
words ‘* in the public road.’? What did they care for the
public road? But Gudrun was conciliatory.

** But we weren’t laughing to hurt you,” she cried, with
an uncouth gentleness which made her parents uncomfort-
able. ‘* We were laughing because we’re fond of you.”’

** We’ll walk on in front, if they are so touchy,’’ said
Ursula, angry. And in this wise they arrived at Willey
Water. The lake was blue and fair, the meadows sloped
down in sunshine on one side, the thick dark woods dropped
steeply on the other. The little pleasure-launch was fussing

164 WOMEN IN LOVE

out from the shore, twanging its music, crowded with —
people, flapping its paddles. Near the boat-house was a
throng of gaily-dressed persons, small in the distance. And —
on the high-road, some of the common people were standing
along the hedge, looking at the festivity beyond, enviously,
like souls not admitted to paradise.

** My eye! ”’ said Gudrun, sotto voce, looking at the
motley of guests, ‘‘ there’s a pretty crowd if you like!
Imagine yourself in the midst of that, my dear.”’

Gudrun’s apprehensive horror of people in the mass un-
nerved Ursula. ‘* It looks rather awful,’’ she said anxiously.

** And imagine what they’ll be like—imagine!” said
Gudrun, still in that unnerving, subdued voice. Yet she
advanced determinedly.

** I suppose we can get away from them,”’ said Ursula
anxiously.

** We’re in a pretty fix if we can’t,”’ said Gudrun. Her
extreme ironic loathing and apprehension was very trying
to Ursula. .

** We needn’t stay,”’ she said.

**T certainly shan’t stay five minutes among that little
lot,’? said Gudrun. They advanced nearer, till they saw
policemen at the gates.

** Policemen to keep you in, too! ”? said Gudrun. ‘* My
word, this is a beautiful affair.’’

‘© We’d better look after father and mother,”’ said Ursula
anxiously.

‘© Mother’s perfectly capable of getting through this little
celebration,’’ said Gudrun with some contempt.
But Ursula knew that her father felt uncouth and angry
and unhappy, so she was far from her ease. They waited —
outside the gate till their parents came up. The tall, thin -

man in his crumpled clothes was unnerved and irritable as

a boy, finding himself on the brink of this social function. —
He did not feel a gentleman, he did not feel anything except —
pure exasperation.

Ursula took her place at his side, they gave their tickets
to the policeman, and passed in on to the grass, four
abreast; the tall, hot, ruddy-dark man with his narrow
boyish brow drawn with irritation, the fresh-faced, easy
woman, perfectly collected though her hair was slipping on
one side, then Gudrun, her eyes round and dark and star-
ing, her full soft face impassive, almost sulky, so that she

pon.”
. it ae a.

WATER-PARTY 165

_ seemed to be backing away in antagonism even whilst she
was advancing; and then Ursula, with the odd, brilliant,
dazzled look on her face, that always came when she was
in some false situation.

Birkin was the good angel. He came smiling to them
_ with his affected social grace, that somehow was never quite
right. But he took off his hat and smiled at them with a
real smile in his eyes, so that Brangwen cried out heartily

_ in relief:

** How do you do? You’re better, are you?’’

** Yes, I’m better. How do you do, Mrs Brangwen? I
know Gudrun and Ursula very -well.’’

His eyes smiled full of natural warmth. He had a soft,
flattering manner with women, particularly with women
who were not young.

** Yes,’ said Mrs Brangwen, cool but yet gratified. ‘* I
have heard them speak of you often enough.”’

He laughed. Gudrun looked aside, feeling she was being
belittled. People were standing about in groups, some
women were sitting in the shade of the walnut tree, with
cups of tea in their hands, a waiter in evening dress was
hurrying round, some girls were simpering with parasols,
some young men, who had just come in from rowing, were
sitting cross-legged on the grass, coatless, their shirt-sleeves
rolled up in manly fashion, their hands resting on their
white flannel trousers, their gaudy ties floating about, as
they laughed and tried to be witty with the young damsels.

** Why,’’ thought Gudrun churlishly, ** don’t they have
the manners to put their coats on, and not to assume such
intimacy in their appearance.”’

She abhorred the ordinary young man, with his hair plas-
tered back, and his easy-going chumminess.

Hermione Roddice came up, in a handsome gown of white
lace, trailing an enormous silk shawl blotched with great
embroidered flowers, and balancing an enormous plain hat
on her head. She looked striking, astonishing, almost
macabre, so tall, with the fringe of her great cream-coloured
vividly-blotched shaw] trailing on the ground after her, her
thick hair coming low over her eyes, her face strange and
long and pale, and the blotches of brilliant colour drawn
round her.

** Doesn’t she look weird! ’? Gudrun heard some girls
titter behind her. And she could have killed them.

166 WOMEN IN LOVE

** How do you do! ”’ sang Hermione, coming up very
kindly, and glancing slowly over Gudrun’s father and
mother. It was a trying moment, exasperating for Gudrun.
Hermione was really so strongly entrenched in her class

superiority, she could come up and know people out of

simple curiosity, as if they were creatures on exhibition.
Gudrun would do the same herself. But she resented being
in the position when somebody might do it to her.
Hermione, very remarkable, and distinguishing the
Brangwens very much, led them along to where Laura Crich
stood receiving the guests.
** This is Mrs Brangwen,’’ sang Hermione, and Laura,

who wore a stiff embroidered linen dress; shook hands and.

said she was glad to see her. Then Gerald came up, dressed

a Pee

in white, with a black and brown blazer, and looking hand-

some. He too was introduced to the Brangwen parents,
and immediately he spoke to Mrs Brangwen as if she were
a lady, and to Brangwen as if he were not a gentleman.

Gerald was so obvious in his demeanour. He had to shake ©

hands with his left hand, because he had hurt his right, and
carried it, bandaged up, in the pocket of his jacket. Gud-
run was very thankful that none of her party asked him
what was the matter with the hand.

The steam launch was fussing in, all its music jingling,
people calling excitedly from on board. Gerald went to see
to the debarkation, Birkin was getting tea for Mrs Bran-
gwen, Brangwen had joined a Grammar-School group, Her-
mione was sitting down by their mother, the girls went to
the landing-stage to watch the launch come in.

She hooted and tooted gaily, then her paddles were silent,
the ropes were thrown ashore, she drifted in with a little
bump. Immediately the passengers crowded excitedly to
come ashore.

‘Wait a minute, wait a minute,’’ shouted Gerald in —

sharp command.
_ They must wait till the boat was tight on the ropes, till
the small gangway was put out. Then they streamed
ashore, clamouring as if they had come from America. |

** Oh it’s so nice! ’ the young girls were crying. ‘* It’s
quite lovely.”’ .

The waiters from on board ran out to the boat-house with
baskets, the captain lounged on the little bridge. Seeing
all safe, Gerald came to Gudrun and Ursula,

hee le mo Aer ad, “eh cy rir >* Sor
Bie Al 0, la Rl
VRP

Wer.

WATERPARTY 167

** You wouldn’t care to go on board for the next trip,
and have tea there?” he asked.

** No thanks,”? said Gudrun coldly.

** You don’t care for the water ?”’

** For the water? Yes, I like it very much.”’

He looked at her, his eyes searching.

** You don’t care for going on a launch, then ??’’

She was slow in answering, and then she spoke slowly.

** No,” she said. ‘* I can’t say that I do.’’ Her colour
was high, she seemed angry about something.

** Un peu trop de monde,”’ said Ursula, explaining.

** Eh? Trop de monde! ’’ He laughed shortly. ‘* Yes
there’s a fair number of ’em.”’ —

Gudrun turned on him brilliantly.

** Have you ever been from Westminster Bridge to Rich-
mond on one of the Thames steamers ?”’ she cried.

** No,” he said, ‘* I can’t say I have.”’

** Well, it’s one of the most vile experiences I’ve ever
had.’? She spoke rapidly and excitedly, the colour high in
her cheeks. ‘* There was absolutely nowhere to sit down,
nowhere, a man just above sang ‘ Rocked in the Cradle of
the Deep ’ the whole way; he was blind and he had a small
organ, one of those portable organs, and he expected
money ; sO you can imagine what that was like; there came
a constant smell of luncheon from below, and puffs of hot
oily machinery; the journey took hours and hours and
hours; and for miles, literally for miles, dreadful boys ran
with us on the shore, in that awful Thames mud, going in
up to the waist—they had their trousers turned back,
and they went up to their hips in that indescribable
Thames mud, their faces always turned to us, and scream-
ing, exactly like carrion creatures, screaming ‘ ’Ere y’are
sir, ’ere y’are sir, ’ere y’are sir,’ exactly like some foul car-
rion objects, perfectly obscene; and paterfamilias on board,
laughing when the boys went right down in that awful mud,
occasionally throwing them a ha’penny. And if you’d seen
the intent look on the faces of these boys, and the way
they darted in the filth when a coin was flung—really, no
vulture or jackal could dream of approaching them, for foul-
ness. 1 never would go on a pleasure boat again—
never.”’

Gerald watched her all the time she spoke, his eyes glit-
tering with faint rousedness, It was not so much what she -

ek Q mig es fice Ly ay , a an Piet" ha «ee aAAE ae a tae BD oP ri
‘ i ! “s . i fh : at . ‘ey
¥ f : :

iia dean,

rieg WOMEN IN LOVE

said ; it was she herself who roused him, roused him will a
small, vivid pricking. :

“ Of course,”’ he said, ** every civilised body is bound to
have its vermin.’’

** Why ?’’ cried Ursula. ‘* I don’t have vermin.’’

** And it’s not that—it’s the quality of the whole thing—
paterfamilias laughing and thinking it sport, and throwing
the ha’pennies, and materfamilias spreading her fat
little knees and eating, continually eating— ’’ replied
Gudrun.

** Yes,’’ said Ursula. ‘‘ It isn’t the boys so much who
are vermin; it’s the people themselves, the whole body
politic, as you call it.’

Gerald laughed.

** Never mind,”’ he said. ‘* You shan’t go on the
launch.’’

Gudrun flushed quickly at his rebuke.

There were a few moments of silence. Gerald, like a sen-
tinel, was watching the people who were going on to the
boat. He was very good-looking and self-contained, but his
air of soldierly alertness was rather irritating.

** Will you have tea here then, or go across to the house,
where there’s a tent on the lawn ?”’ he asked.

** Can’t we have a rowing boat, and get out??? asked
Ursula, who was always rushing in too fast.

** To get out?’ smiled Gerald.

** You see,”’ cried Gudrun, flushing at Ursula’s out-
spoken rudeness, ‘* we don’t know the people, we are almost
complete strangers here.”’

** Oh, I can soon set you up with a few acquaintances,”’
he said easily.

Gudrun looked at him, to see if it were ill-meant. Then
she smiled at him.

** Ah,” she said, ** you know what we mean. Can’t we
go up there, and explore that coast?’? She pointed to a
grove on the hillock of the meadow-side, near the shore,
half way down the lake. ‘* That looks perfectly lovely
We might even bathe. Isn’t it beautiful in this light}
Really, it’s like one of the reaches of the Nile—as one imag-
ines the Nile.”’

Gerald smiled at her factitious enthusiasm for the distant
spot.

eee You’re sure it’s far enough off?’’ he asked ironically,

y eee Palogeee ee ini ab ee ji crea , ‘nt We kine Mit eat 2 « ey ms Ta aN Ryle Wie Pi Ne? ad Mav be mA Ve if

eer rae. 169

adding at once : ** Yes, you might go there, if we could get

a boat. They seem to be all out.’’

He looked round the lake and counted the rowing boats
on its surface.

** How lovely it would be! ” cried Ursula wistfully.

** And don’t you want tea?”’’ he said.

** Oh,”’ said Gudrun, ** we could just drink a cup, and be

off. 39
He looked fein one to the other, smiling. He was some-

what offended—yet sporting.

** Can you manage a boat pretty well ?’’ is asked.

** Yes,”’ replied Gudrun, coldly, ‘* pretty well.’’

** Oh yes,” eried Ursula. ‘*‘ We can both of us row like
water-spiders.”’

** You can? There’s a light little canoe of mine, that I
didn’t take out for fear somebody should drown themselves.
Do you think you’d be safe in that ?”’

** Oh perfectly,’’ said Gudrun.

** What an angel! ” cried Ursula.

** Don’t, for my sake, have an accident—because I’m re-
sponsible for the water.”’

** Sure,”’ pledged Gudrun.

Besides, we can both swim quite well,’’ said Ursula.

** Well—then I’ll get them to put you up a tea-basket,
and you can picnic all to yourselves,—that’s the idea, isn’t
et

** How fearfully good! How frightfully nice if you
could! *? cried Gudrun warmly, her colour flushing up
again. It made the blood stir in his veins, the subtle way
she turned to him and infused her gratitude into his

_ body.

** Where’s Birkin ?’’ he said, his eyes twinkling. ‘* He
might help me to get it down.”’’

** But what about your hand? Isn’t it hurt?’’ asked
Gudrun, rather muted, as if avoiding the intimacy. This
was the first time the hurt had been mentioned. The
curious way she skirted round the subject sent a new, subtle
caress through his veins. He took his hand out of his
pocket. It was bandaged. He looked at it, then put it in
his pocket again. Gudrun quivered at the sight of the
wrapped up paw.

**Oh I can manage with one hand. The canoe is as
light as a feather,”’ he said. ‘* There’s Rupert !—Rupert !’’

170 WOMEN IN LOVE *

Birkin turned from his social duties and came towards
them.

** What have you done to it??? asked Ursula, who had
been aching to put the question for the last half hour.

**'To my hand ?’’ said Gerald. ‘‘ I trapped it in some
machinery.”’

** Ugh! *? said Ursula. ‘* And did it hurt much?”

** Yes,” he said. ‘* It did at the time. It’s getting
better now. It crushed the fingers.”’

_ ** Oh,”’ cried Ursula, as if in pain, ‘* I hate people who
hurt themselves. I can feel it.?? And she shook her hand.

** What do you want ?’’ said Birkin.

_ The two men carried down the slim brown boat, and set it
on the water.

** You’re quite sure you’ll be safe in it ?’? Gerald asked.

** Quite sure,’’ said Gudrun. ‘* I wouldn’t be so mean as
to take it, if there was the slightest doubt. But I’ve had a
canoe at Arundel, and I assure you I’m perfectly safe.’’

So saying, having given her word like a man, she and
Ursula entered the frail craft, and pushed gently off. The
two men stood watching them. Gudrun was paddling.
She knew the men were watching her, and it made her slow
and rather clumsy. The colour flew in her face like a flag.

** Thanks awfully,’’ she called back to him, from the
water, as the boat slid away. ‘* It’s lovely—like sitting in

a leaf.’’

‘He laughed at the fancy. Her voice was shrill and
strange, calling from the distance. He watched her as she
paddled away. There was something childlike about her,
trustful and deferential, like a child. He watched her all
the while, as she rowed. And to Gudrun it was a real de-
light, in make-belief, to be the childlike, clinging woman to
the man who stood there on the quay, so goodlooking and
efficient in his white clothes, and moreover the most im-
portant man she knew at the moment. She did not take
any notice of the wavering, indistinct, lambent Birkin, who
stood at his side. One figure at a time occupied the field
of her attention. }

The boat rustled lightly along the water. They passed
the bathers whose striped tents stood between the willows
of the meadow’s edge, and drew along the open shore, past
the meadows that sloped golden in the light of the already
late afternoon. Other boats were stealing under the wooded

WATERPARTY 171

shore opposite, they could hear people’s laughter and voices.
But Gudrun rowed on towards the clump of trees that
balanced perfect in the distance, in the golden light.

The sisters found a little place where a tiny stream flowed
into the lake, with reeds and flowery marsh of pink willow
herb, and a gravelly bank to the side. Here they ran deli-
cately ashore, with their frail boat, the two girls took off
their shoes and stockings and went through the water’s edge
to the grass. The tiny ripples of the lake were warm and
clear, they lifted their boat on to the bank, and looked
round with joy. They were quite alone in a forsaken little
stream-mouth, and on the knoll just behind was the clump
of trees.

** We will bathe just for a moment,”’ said Ursula, ‘* and
then we’ll have tea.”’

They looked round. Nobody could notice them, or could
come up in time to see them. In less than a minute Ursula
had thrown off her clothes and had slipped naked into the
water, and was swimming out. Quickly, Gudrun joined
her. They swam silently and blissfully for a few minutes,
circling round their little stream-mouth. Then they slipped
ashore and ran into the grove again, like nymphs.

** How lovely it is to be free,’? said Ursula, running
swiftly here and there between the tree trunks, quite naked,
her hair blowing loose. The grove was of beech-trees, big
and splendid, a steel-grey scaffolding of trunks and boughs,
with level sprays of strong green here and there, whilst
through the northern side the distance glimmered open as
through a window.

When they had run and danced themselves dry, the girls
quickly dressed and sat down to the fragrant tea. They sat
on the northern side of the grove, in the yellow sunshine
facing the slope of the grassy hill, alone in a little wild world
of their own. The tea was hot and aromatic, there were

_ delicious little sandwiches of cucumber and of caviare, and

winy cakes.
** Are you happy, Prune ?”’ cried Ursula in delight, look-

ing at her sister.

** Ursula, I’m perfectly happy,’’ replied Gudrun gravely,
looking at the westering sun.

** So am I.”’

When they were together, doing the things they enjoyed,
the two sisters were quite complete in a perfect world of

Wen OL Res area eel ge ME is soem

~

172 WOMEN IN LOVE. a

their own. And this was one of the perfect moments of
freedom and delight, such as children alone know, when all
seems a perfect and blissful adventure.

When they had finished tea, the two girls sat on, silent
and serene. Then Ursula, who had a beautiful strong voice,
began to sing to herself, softly : ** Annchen von Tharau.”’
Gudrun listened, as she sat beneath the trees, and the yearn-
ing came into her heart. Ursula seemed so peaceful and
sufficient unto herself, sitting there unconsciously crooning
her song, strong and unquestioned at the centre of her own
universe. And Gudrun felt herself outside. Always this
desolating, agonised feeling, that she was outside of life, an
onlooker, whilst Ursula was a partaker, caused Gudrun to
suffer from a sense of her own negation, and made her, that
she must always demand the other to be aware of her, to
be in connection with her.

** Do you mind if I do Dalcroze to that tune, Hurtler?”
she asked in a curious muted tone, scarce moving her lips.

** What did you say ?”’ asked Ursula, looking up in pear
ful surprise.

** Will you sing while I do Dalcroze ?”’ said Gudrun, wut
fering at having to repeat herself.

Ursula thought a moment, gathering her straying wits
together.

** While you do— ?”’ she asked vaguely.

** Daleroze movements,” said Gudrun, suffering tortures
of self-consciousness, even because of her sister.

** Oh Daicroze! I couldn’t catch the name. Do—I
should love to see you,”’ cried Ursula, with childish sur-
prised brightness. ‘* What shall I sing ?’’

** Sing anything you like, and I’ll take the rhythm from
1

But Ursula could not for her life think of anything to
sing. However, she suddenly began, in a laughing, teasing
voice :

** My love—is a high-born lady— ”’

Gudrun, looking as if some invisible chain weighed on her
hands and feet, began slowly to dance in the eurythmic
manner, pulsing and fluttering rhythmically with her feet,
making slower, regular gestures with her hands and arms,
now spreading her arms wide, now raising them above her
head, now flinging them softly apart, and lifting her face,
her feet all the time beating and running to the measure of

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the song, as if it were some strange incantation, her white,
rapt form drifting here and there in a strange impulsive

rhapsody, seeming to be lifted on a breeze of incantation,

shuddering with ‘strange little runs. Ursula sat on the
grass, her mouth open in her singing, her eyes laughing as

if she thought it was a great joke, but a yellow light flashing -

up in them, as she caught some of the unconscious ritualistic
suggestion of the complex shuddering and waving and drift-
ing of her sister’s white form, that was clutched in pure,
mindless, tossing rhythm, and a will set powerful in a kind
of hypnotic influence.

** My love is a high-born lady—She is-s-s—rather dark
than shady— ”’ rang out Ursula’s laughing, satiric song, and
quicker, fiercer went Gudrun in the dance, stamping as if
she were trying to throw off some bond, flinging her hands
suddenly and stamping again, then rushing with face up-
lifted and throat full and beautiful, and eyes half closed,
sightless. The sun was low and yellow, sinking down, and
in the sky floated a thin, ineffectual moon. — :

Ursula was quite absorbed in her song, when suddenly
Gudrun stopped and said mildly, ironically :

** Ursula! ”’

** Yes?’ said Ursula, opening her eyes out of the trance.

Gudrun was standing still and pointing, a mocking smile
on her face, towards the side.
** Ugh! *? cried Ursula in sudden panic, starting to her
feet. |

** They’re quite all right,’? rang out Gudrun’s sardonic
voice.

On the left stood a little cluster of Highland cattle, vividly
coloured and fleecy in the evening light, their horns branch-
ing into the sky, pushing forward their muzzles inquisitively,
to know what it was all about. Their eyes glittered through
their tangle of hair, their naked nostrils were full of shadow.

** Won’t they do anything ?’’ cried Ursula in fear.

Gudrun, who was usually frightened of cattle, now shook
her head in a queer, half-doubtful, half-sardonic motion, a
faint smile round her mouth.

** Don’t they look charming, Ursula ?’’ cried Gudrun, in
a high, strident voice, something like the scream of a sea-
gull. , :

** Charming,” cried Ursula in trepidation. ‘* But won’t
they do anything to us ?’’

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174 WOMEN IN LOVE

Again Gudrun looked back at her sister with an enigmatic —
smile, and shook her head. ;

*“* I’m sure they won’t,”’ she said, as if she had to con-
vince herself also, and yet, as if she were confident of some
secret power in herself, and had to put it to the test. ‘* Sit
down and sing again,’’ she ealled in her high, strident
voice.

** I’m frightened,”’ cried’ Ursula, in a pathetic voice,
watching the group of sturdy short cattle, that stood with
their knees plantéd, and watched with their dark, wicked
eyes, through the matted fringe of their hair. Neverthe-
less, she sank down again, in her former posture.

** They are quite safe,” came Gudrun’s high call. ‘* Sing
something, you’ve only to sing something.’’

It was evident she had a strange passion to dance before
the sturdy, handsome cattle.

Ursula began to sing, in a false quavering voice :

** Way down in Tenessee —— ”’ |

She sounded purely anxious. Nevertheless, Gudrun, with
her arms outspread and her face uplifted, went in a strange
palpitating dance towards the cattle, lifting her body to-
wards them as if in a spell, her feet pulsing as if in some
little frenzy of unconscious sensation, her arms, her wrists,
her hands stretching and heaving and falling and reaching
and reaching and falling, her breasts lifted and shaken to-
wards the cattle, her throat exposed as in some voluptuous
ecstasy towards them, whilst she drifted imperceptibly
nearer, an uncanny white figure, towards them, carried
away in its own rapt trance, ebbing in strange fluctuations
upon the cattle, that waited, and ducked their heads a little
in sudden contraction from her, watching all the time as if
hypnotised, their bare horns branching in the clear light, as
the white figure of the woman ebbed upon them, in the
slow, hypnotising convulsion of the dance. She could feel
them just in front of her, it was as if she had the electric
pulse from their breasts running into her hands. Soon she
would touch them, actually touch them. A terrible shiver
of fear and pleasure went through her. And all the while,
Ursula, spell-bound, kept up her high-pitched thin, irrele-
vant song, which pierced the fading evening like an incan-
tation.

Gudrun could hear the cattle breathing heavily with help-
less fear and fascination. Oh, they were brave little beasts,

WATER-PARTY a 5

these wild Scotch bullocks, wild and fleecy. Suddenly one
of them snorted, ducked its head, and backed.

“* Hue! Hi-eee! ’? came a sudden loud shout from the
edge of the grove. The cattle broke and fell back quite
spontaneously, went running up the hill, their fleece wav-
ing like fire to their motion. Gudrun stood suspended out
on the grass, Ursula rose to her feet.

It was Gerald and Birkin come to find them, and Gerald
had cried out to frighten off the cattle.

_ §*§ What do you think you’re doing ?’’ he now called, in a
high, wondering vexed tone.

** Why have you come?’’ came back Gudrun’s strident
ery of anger.

** What do you think you were doing ?’’ Gerald repeated,
automatically.

** ‘We were doing eurythmics,”? laughed Ursula,-in a
shaken voice.

Gudrun stood aloof looking at them with large dark eyes
of resentment, suspended for a few moments. Then she
walked away up the hill, after the cattle, which had gathered
in a little, spell-bound cluster higher up.

** Where are you going ?’’ Gerald called after her. And
he followed her up the hill-side. The sun had gone behind
the hill, and shadows were clinging to the earth, the sky
above was full of travelling light.

** A poor song for a dance,”’ said Birkin to Ursula, stand-
ing before her with a sardonic, flickering laugh on his face.
And in another second, he was singing softly to himself, and
dancing a grotesque step-dance in front of her, his limbs and
body shaking loose, his face flickering palely, a constant
thing, whilst his feet beat a rapid mocking tattoo, and his
body seemed to hang all loose and quaking in between, like
a shadow.

** I think we’ve all gone mad,” she said, laughing rather
frightened.

** Pity we aren’t madder,”’ he answered, as he kept up the
incessant shaking dance. Then suddenly he leaned up to
her and kissed her fingers lightly, putting his face to hers
and looking into her eyes with a pale grin. She stepped
back, affronted.

** Offended—? ’ he asked ironically, suddenly going quite
still and reserved again. ‘* 1 thought you liked the light
fantastic.”’

pe tis Retains MN aa Laine CAPA hi ET lina cadre
176 WOMEN IN LOVE
‘* Not like that,’? she said, confused and bewildered,
almost affronted. Yet somewhere inside her she was fas-
cinated by the sight of his loose, vibrating body, perfectly
abandoned to its own dropping and swinging, and by the
pallid, sardonic-smiling face above. Yet automatically she
stiffened herself away, and disapproved. It seemed almost
an obscenity, in a man who talked as a rule so very
seriously. :
** Why not like that?’’? he mocked. And immediately h
dropped again into the incredibly rapid, slack-waggling
dance, watching her malevolently. And moving in the
rapid, stationary dance, he came a little nearer, and reached
forward with an incredibly mocking, satiric gleam on his
face, and would have kissed her again, had she not started

back.
** No, don’t! *? she cried, really afraid.

~

** Cordelia after all,’’ he said satirically. She was stung,

as if this were an insult. She knew he intended it as such,
and it bewildered her.

** And you,”’’ she cried in retort, *‘** why do you always
take your soul in your mouth, so frightfully full ?”’

** So that I can spit it out the more readily,’”’ he said,
pleased by his own retort.

Gerald Crich, his face narrowing to an intent gleam, fol-
lowed up the hill with quick strides, straight after Gudrun.
The cattle stood with their noses together on the brow of a
slope, watching the scene below, the men in white hovering
about the white forms of the women, watching above all
Gudrun, who was advancing slowly towards them. She
stood a moment, glancing back at Gerald, and then at the
cattle.

Then in a sudden motion, she lifted her arms and rushed —

sheer upon the long-horned bullocks, in shuddering irregular
runs, pausing for a second and looking at them, then lifting
her hands and running forward with a flash, till they ceased
pawing the ground, and gave way, snorting with terror, lift-
ing their heads from the ground and flinging themselves
away, galloping off into the evening, becoming tiny in the
distance, and still not stopping.

Gudrun remained staring after them, with a mask-like
defiant face.

‘¢ Why do you want to drive them mad ?”’ asked Gerald,
coming up with her.

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WATERPARTY | 177

She took no notice of him, only averted her face from him.
** It’s not safe, you know,’’ he persisted. ‘* They’re
nasty, when they do turn.”’

** Turn where? Turn away?’ she mocked loudly. .

** No,”’ he said, ** turn against you.”’

** Turn against me?’’ she mocked.

He could make nothing of this.

** Anyway, they gored one of the farmer’s cows to death,
the other day,”’ he said.

** What do I care ?’’ she said.

** I cared though,”’ he replied, ‘* seeing that they’re my
cattle.”’

** How are they yours! You haven’t swallowed them.
Give me one of them now,” she said, holding out her hand.

** You know where they are,’’ he said, pointing over the
hill. ‘* You can have one if you’d like it sent to you later
on.”’

She looked at him inscrutably.

** You think I’m afraid of you and your cattle, don’t
you ?”’ she asked.

His eyes narrowed dangerously. There was a faint
domineering smile on his face.

** Why should I think that ?’’ he said.

She was watching him all the time with her dark, dilated,
inchoate eyes. She leaned forward and swung round her
arm, catching him a light blow on the face with the back
of her hand.

** That’s why,”’ she said, mocking. |

And she felt in her soul an unconquerable desire for deep
violence against him. She shut off the fear and dismay
that filled her conscious mind. She wanted to do as she did,
she was not going to be afraid.

He recoiled from the slight blow on his face. He
became deadly pale, and a dangerous flame darkened his
eyes. For some seconds he could not speak, his lungs were
so suffused with blood, his heart stretched almost to bursting
with a great gush of ungovernable emotion. It was as if
some reservoir of black emotion had burst within him, and
swamped him.

** You have struck the first blow,’’ he said at last, forcing
the words from his lungs, in a voice so soft and low, it
sounded like a dream within her, not spoken in the outer
air.

M

178 - WOMEN IN LOVE. ak.

‘© And I shall strike the last,’’ she retorted involuntarily, |
with confident assurance. He was silent, he did not contra-
dict her.

She stood negligently, staring away from him, into the
distance. On the edge of her consciousness the question
was asking itself, automatically :

‘* Why are you behaving in this impossible and ridiculous
fashion.”? But she’was sullen, she half shoved the question
out of herself. She could not get it clean away, so she felt
self-conscious.

Gerald, very pale, was watching her closely. His eyes
were lit up with intent lights, absorbed and gleaming. She
turned suddenly on him.

** It’s you who make me behave like this, you know,”
she said, almost suggestive.

**I? How?” he said.

But she turned away, and set off towards the lake. Be-
low, on the water, lanterns were coming alight, faint ghosts
of warm flame floating in the pallor of the first twilight.
The earth was spread with darkness, like lacquer, overhead
was a pale sky, all primrose, and the lake was pale as milk
in one part. Away at the landing stage, tiniest points of
coloured rays were stringing themselves in the dusk. The
launch was being illuminated. Al) round, shadow was
gathering from the trees.

Gerald, white like a presence in his summer clothes, was
following down the open grassy slope. Gudrun waited for
him to come up. Then she softly put out her hand and
touched him, saying softly :

** Don’t be angry with me.”’

A flame flew over him, and he was unconscious. Yet he
stammered :

** T’m not angry with you. I’m in love with you.”

His mind was gone, he grasped for sufficient mechanical
control, to save himself. She laughed a silvery little mock-
ery, yet intolerably caressive.

** That’s one way of putting it,’’ she said.

The terrible swooning burden on his mind, the awful
swooning, the loss of all his control, was too much for him.
He grasped her arm in his one hand, as if his hand were iron.

** Tt’s all right, then, is it??? he said, holding her arrested.

She looked at the face with the fixed eyes, set before her,
and her blood ran cold.

WATERPARTY -: | 179

** Yes, it’s all right,’’ she said softly, as if drugged, her
voice crooning and witch-like.

He walked on beside her, a striding, mindless body. But
he recovered a little as he went. He suffered badly. He
had killed his brother when a boy, and was set apart, like
Cain.

They found Birkin and Ursula iting together by the
boats, talking and laughing. Birkin had been teasing
Ursula.

** Do you smell this little marsh?’’ he said, sniffing the
air. He was very sensitive to scents, and quick in under-
standing them.

** It’s rather nice,’’ she said.

** No,’ he replied, ‘* alarming.’’

* Why alarming ?” she laughed.

** It seethes and seethes, a river of darkness,” he said,

** putting forth lilies and snakes, and the ignis fatuus, and
rolling all the time onward. That’s what we never take
into count—that it rolls onwards.’’

** What does ?”’

** The other river, the black river. We always consider
the silver river of life, rolling on and quickening all the
world to a brightness, on and on to heaven, flowing into a
bright eternal sea, a heaven of angels thronging. But the
other is our real reality— ”’

** But what other? I don’t see any other,’ said Ursula.

** It is your reality, nevertheless,’’ he said; ‘* that dark
river of dissolution. You see it rolls in us just as the other
rolls—the black river of corruption. And our flowers are of
this—our sea-born Aphrodite, all our white phosphorescent
flowers of sensuous perfection, all our reality, nowadays.”’

** You mean that Aphrodite is really deathly ?’’ asked
Ursula.

** I mean she is the flowering mystery of the death-
process, yes,”’ he replied. ‘* When the stream of synthetic
creation lapses, we find ourselves part of the inverse pro-
cess, the blood of destructive creation. Aphrodite is born
_ in the first spasm of universal dissolution—then the snakes
and swans and lotus—marsh-flowers—and Gudrun and
Gerald—born in the process of destructive creation.’’

** And you and me— ?”’ she asked.

** Probably,’’ he replied. ‘* In part, certainly. Whether
we are that, in toto, I don’t yet know.”’

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180 WOMEN IN LOVE

** You mean we are flowers of dissolution—fleurs du mal?
I don’t feel as if I were,”? she protested.

He was silent for a time.

** I don’t feel as if we were, altogether,’’ he replied.
** Some people are pure flowers of dark corruption—lilies.
But there ought to be some roses, warm and flamy. You
know Herakleitos says ‘ a dry soul is best.” I know so
well what that means. Do you?”

** I’m not sure,’? Ursula replied. ‘‘ But what if people
are all flowers of dissolution—when they’re flowers at all—
what difference does it make ?”’

** No difference—and all the difference. Dissolution rolls
on, just as production does,”’ he said. ‘* It is a progressive
process—and it ends in universal nothing—the end of the
world, if you like. But why isn’t the end of the world as
good as the beginning ?”’

** IT suppose it isn’*t,”’ said Ursula, rather angry.

** Oh yes, ultimately,’’ he said. ‘* It means a new cycle
of creation after—but not for us. If it is the end, then we
are of the end—fieurs du mal if you like. If we are fleurs
du mal, we are not roses of happiness, and there you
are.”’

_ * But I think I am,”’ said Ursula. ‘* I think I am a rose
of happiness.”’

** Ready-made ?”’ he asked ironically.

** No—real,’’ she said, hurt.

** If we are the end, we are not the beginning,”’ he said.

** ‘Yes we are,’’ she said. ‘* The beginning comes out of
the end.”’

** After it, not out of it. After us, not out of us.’’

** You are a devil, you know, really,’? she said. ‘* You
want to destroy our hope. You want us to be deathly.”

** No,”’ he said, ** I only want us to know what we are.””

** Ha! *’ she cried in anger. ‘* You only want us to know
death.’’

** You’re quite right,”’ said the soft voice of Gerald, out —
of the dusk behind. ;

Birkin rose. Gerald and Gudrun came up. _ They all
began to smoke, in the moments of silence. One after an-
‘other, Birkin lighted their cigarettes. The match flickered
in the twilight, and they were all smoking peacefully by the
water-side. The lake was dim, the light dying from off it,
in the midst of the dark land. The air all round was in- ©

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WATERPARTY 181

tangible, neither here nor there, and there was an unreal

noise of banjoes, or suchlike music.

As the golden swim of light overhead died out, the moon
gained brightness, and seemed to begin to smile forth her
ascendancy. The dark woods on the opposite shore melted
into universal shadow. And amid this universal under-
shadow, there was a scattered intrusion of lights. Far down
the lake were fantastic pale strings of colour, like beads of
wan fire, green and red and yellow. The music came out in
a little puff, as the launch, all illuminated, veered into the
great shadow, stirring her outlines of half-living lights, puf-
fing out her music in little drifts.

All were lighting up. Here and there, close against the
faint water, and at the far end of the lake, where the water
lay milky in the last whiteness of the sky, and there was no
shadow, solitary, frail flames of lanterns floated from the
unseen boats. There was a sound of oars, and a boat passed
from the pallor into the darkness under the wood, where
her lanterns seemed to kindle into fire, hanging in ruddy
lovely globes. And again, in the lake, shadowy red gleams
hovered in reflection about the boat. Everywhere were
these noiseless ruddy creatures of fire drifting near the sur-
face of the water, caught at by the rarest, scarce visible re-
flections.

Birkin brought the lanterns from the bigger boat, and the
four shadowy white figures gathered round, to light them.
Ursula held up the first, Birkin lowered the light from the
rosy, glowing cup of his hands, into the depths of the lan-
tern. It was kindled, and they all stood back to look at the
great blue moon of light that hung from Ursula’s hand, cast-
ing a strange gleam on her face. It flickered, and. Birkin
went bending over the well of light. His face shone out like
an apparition, so unconscious, and again, something
demoniacal. Ursula was dim and veiled, looming over him.

** That is all right,’’ said his voice softly.

She held up the lantern. It had a flight of storks stream-
ing through a turquoise sky of light, over a dark earth.

‘* This is beautiful,’’ she said.

** Lovely,’’ echoed Gudrun, who wanted to hold one also,
and lift it up full of beauty. |

** Light one for me,”’ she said. Gerald stood by her,
incapacitated. Birkin lit the lantern she held up. Her
heart beat with anxiety, to see how beautiful it would be.

182 WOMEN IN LOVE

It was primrose yellow, with tall straight flowers growing
darkly from their dark leaves, lifting their heads into the
primrose day, while butterflies hovered about them, in the
pure clear light.

Gudrun gave a little cry of excitement, as if pierved with
delight.

** Isn’t it beautiful, oh, isn’t it beautiful ! ”’

Her soul was really pierced with beauty, she was trans-
lated beyond herself. Gerald leaned near to her, into her
zone of light, as if to see. He came close to her, and stood
touching her, looking with her at the primrose-shining globe.
And she turned her face to his, that was faintly bright in
the light of the lantern, and they stood together in one
luminous union, close together and ringed round with light,
all the rest excluded.

Birkin looked away, and went to light Ursula’s second
lantern. It had a pale ruddy sea-bottom, with black crabs
and sea-weed moving sinuously under a transparent sea,
that passed into flamy ruddiness above.

** You’ve got the heavens above, and the waters under
the earth,’’ said Birkin to her.

** Anything but the earth itself,’’ she laughed, watching
ais live hands that hovered to attend to the light. |

** I’m dying to see what my second one is,’? cried Gud-
run, im a vibrating rather strident voice, that seemed to
repel the others from her.

Birkin went and kindled it. It was of a lovely deep blue
colour, with a red floor, and a great white cuttle-fish flowing
in white soft streams all over it. The cuttle-fish had a face
that stared straight from the heart of the light, very fixed
and coldly intent.

** How truly terrifying ! ’’ exclaimed Gudrun, in a voice
of horror. Gerald, at her side, gave a low laugh.

** But isn’t it really fearful! ’? she cried in dismay.

Again he laughed, and said :

** Change it with Ursula, for the crabs.”’

Gudrun was silent for a moment.

** Ursula,’”’ she said, ** could you bear to have this fear-
ful thing ?”’

‘* T think the colouring is lovely,”’ said Ursula.

** So do I,’’ said Gudrun. ‘‘ But could you bear to have
it swinging to your boat? Don’t you want to destroy it
at once?’

WATER-PARTY 183

** Oh no,” said Ursula. ‘* I don’t want to destroy it.’’

** Well do you mind having it instead of the crabs? Are
you sure you don’t mind ?”’

Gudrun came forward to exchange lanterns.

** No,’’ said Ursula, yielding up the crabs and receiving
the cuttle-fish.

Yet she could not help feeling rather resentful at the way
in which Gudrun and Gerald should assume a right over
her, a precedence.

** Come then,”’ said Birkin. ‘‘ I’ll put them on the
boats.”’

He and Ursula were moving away to the big boat.

** I suppose you'll row me back, Rupert,” said Gerald,
out of the pale shadow of the evening.

*¢ Won’t you go with Gudrun in the canoe ?’’ said Birkin.
** [tll be more interesting.”’

There was a moment’s pause. Birkin and Ursula stood
dimly, with their swinging lanterns, by the water’s edge.
The world was all illusive.

** Ts that all right ?’? said Gudrun to him.

** Tt’ll suit me very well,’’ he said. ‘* But what about
you, and the rowing? I don’t see why you should pull
me.”’

+ ** Why not?’ she said. ‘I can pull you as well as I
could pull Ursula.’’

By her tone he could tell she wanted to have him in the
boat to herself, and that she was subtly gratified that she
should have power over them both. He gave himself, in
a strange, electric submission.

She handed him the lanterns, whilst she went to fix the
cane at the end of the canoe. He followed after her, and
stood with the lanterns dangling against his white-
flannelled thighs, emphasising the shadow around.

** Kiss me before we go,’’ came his voice softly from out
of the shadow above.

She stopped her work in real, momentary astonishment.

** But why ?”’ she exclaimed, in pure surprise.

** Why °’’ he echoed, ironically.

And she looked at him fixedly for some moments. Then
she leaned forward and kissed him, with a slow, luxurious
kiss, lingering on the mouth. And then she took the lan-
terns from him, while he stood swooning with the perfect
fire that burned in all his joints.

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184 WOMEN IN LOVE.

They lifted the canoe into the water, Gudrun took her ©
place, and Gerald pushed off.

** Are you sure you don’t hurt your hand, doing that??? —
she asked, solicitous. ‘* Because I could have done it —
perfectly.”

** IT don’t hurt myself,’’ he said in a low, soft voice, that —
caressed her with inexpressible beauty.

And she watched him as he sat near her, very near to her,
in the stern of the canoe, his legs coming towards hers, his
feet touching hers. And she paddled softly, lingeringly,
longing for him to say something meaningful to her. But —
he remained silent.

** ‘You like this, do you ?”’ she said, in a gentle, solicitous
voice.

He laughed shortly.

** There is a space between us,’’ he said, in the same low,
unconscious voice, as if something were speaking out of
him. And she was as if magically aware of their being
balanced in separation, in the boat. She swooned with
acute comprehension and pleasure.

** But I’m very near,’’ she said caressively, gaily.

** Yet distant, distant,’’ he said.

Again she was silent with pleasure, before she answered,
speaking with a reedy, thrilled voice :

** Yet we cannot very well change, whilst we are on the
water.’? She caressed him subtly and strangely, having
him completely at her mercy.

A dozen or more boats on the lake swung their rosy and
moon-like lanterns low on the water, that reflected as from
a fire. In the distance, the steamer twanged and thrum-
med and washed with her faintly-splashing paddles, trailing
her strings of coloured lights, and occasionally lighting up ~
the whole scene luridly with an effusion of fireworks, Roman
candles and sheafs of stars and other simple effects, illumin-
ating the surface of the water, and showing the boats creep-
ing round, low down. Then the lovely darkness fell again,
the lanterns and the little threaded lights glimmered softly,
there was a muffled knocking of oars and a waving of
music. we

Gudrun paddled almost imperceptibly. Gerald could see,
not far ahead, the rich blue and the rose globes of Ursula’s
lanterns swaying softly cheek to cheek as Birkin rowed, and
iridescent, evanescent gleams chasing in the wake. He was

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PERRO RA Ls SY SER ys er (EGAN BSP aed CARN SP PRA) eo a te eth

SN het

WATERPARTY 185

\ aware, too, of his own delicately coloured lights casting

|

their softness behind him.

Gudrun rested her paddle and looked round. The canoe
lifted with the lightest ebbing of the water. Gerald’s white
knees were very near to her.

** Isn’t it beautiful! ’? she said softly, as if reverently.

She looked at him, as he leaned back against the faint
crystal of the lantern-light. She could see his face, al-
though it was a pure shadow. But it was a piece of twi-
light. And her breast was keen with passion for him, he
was so beautiful in his male stillness and mystery. It was
a certain pure effluence of maleness, like an aroma from his
softly, firmly moulded contours, a certain rich perfection
of his presence, that touched her with an ecstasy, a thrill

of pure intoxication. She loved to look at him. For the

present she did not want to touch him, to know the further,
satisfying substance of his living body. He was purely in-
tangible, yet so near. Her hands lay on the paddle like
slumber, she only wanted to see him, like a crystal shadow,
to feel his essential presence.

** Yes,”’ he said vaguely. ‘* It is very beautiful.’’

He was listening to the faint near sounds, the dropping
of water-drops from the oar-blades, the slight drumming of
the lanterns behind him, as they rubbed against one
another, the occasional rustling of Gudrun’s full skirt, an
alien land noise. His mind was almost submerged, he was
almost transfused, lapsed out for the first time in his life,
into the things about him. For he always kept such a
keen attentiveness, concentrated and unyielding in himself.
Now he had let go, imperceptibly he was melting into one-
ness with the whole. It was like pure, perfect sleep, his
first great sleep of life. He had been so insistent, so
guarded, all his life. But here was sleep, and peace, and
perfect lapsing out.

** Shall I row to the landing-stage?’? asked Gudrun
wistfully.

** Anywhere,”’ he answered. ‘* Let it drift.”

** Tell me then, if we are running into anything,”’ she re-
plied, in that very quiet, toneless voice of sheer intimacy.

** The lights will show,’’ he said.

So they drifted almost motionless, in silence. He wanted
silence, pure and whole. But she was uneasy yet for some
word, for some assurance.

186 WOMEN IN LOVE

‘* Nobody will miss you?’? she asked, anxious for some
communication.

‘¢ Miss me?”? he echoed. ‘*‘ No! Why?’’

‘* I wondered if anybody would be looking for you.”’

‘‘ Why should they look for me?’’ And then he re-
membered his manners. ‘* But perhaps you want to get
back,’’ he said, in a changed voice.

‘© No, I don’t want to get back,’ she replied. ‘* No, I
assure you.”

‘* You’re quite sure it’s all right for you ?”’

‘* Perfectly all right.’’

And again they were still. The launch twanged and
hooted, somebody was singing. Then as if the night
smashed, suddenly there was a great shout, a confusion of
shouting, warring on the water, then the horrid noise of
paddles reversed and churned violently.

Gerald sat up, and Gudrun looked at him in fear.

‘* Somebody in the water,” he said, angrily, and desper-
ately, looking keenly across the dusk. ‘* Can you row
up ?”?

Me Where, to the launch?’? asked Gudrun, in nervous
panic.

it Yes.”’

** You'll tell me if I don’t steer straight,’’ she said, in
nervous apprehension.

** You keep pretty level,*’ he said, and the canoe has-
tened forward.

The shouting and the noise continued, sounding horrid
through the dusk, over the surface of the water.

** Wasn’t this bound to happen?’’? said Gudrun, with
heavy hateful irony. But he hardly heard, and she
glanced over her shoulder to see her way. The half-dark
waters were sprinkled with lovely bubbles of swaying lights,

the launch did not look far off. She was rocking her lights —

in the early night. Gudrun rowed as hard as she could.
But now that it was a serious matter, she seemed uncertain

at

e

and clumsy in her stroke, it was difficult to paddle swiftly. —

She glanced at his face. He was looking fixedly into the
darkness, very keen and alert and single in himself, instru-
mental. Her heart sank, she seemed to die a death. ‘* Of
course,”’ she said to herself, *‘ nobody will be drowned.
Of course they won’t. It would be too extravagant and
sensational.’? But her heart was cold, because of his sharp

WATER-PARTY 187

impersonal face. It was as if he belonged naturally to
dread and catastrophe, as if he were himself again. |

Then there came a child’s voice, a girl’s high, piercing
shriek :

*¢ Di—Di—Di—Di—Oh Di—Oh Di—Oh Di! ”’

The blood ran cold in Gudrun’s veins. |

*‘ It’s Diana, is it,?? muttered Gerald. ‘* The young
monkey, she’d have to be up to some of her tricks.”

And he glanced again at the paddle, the boat was not
going quickiy enough for him. It made Gudrun almost
helpless at the rowing, this nervous stress. She kept up
with all her might. Still the voices were calling and
answering. .

** Where, where? There you are—that’s it. Which?
No—No-0-0. Damn it all, here, here— ”’ Boats were
hurrying from all directions to the scene, coloured lanterns
could be seen waving close to the surface of the lake, re-
flections swaying after them in uneven haste. The steamer
hooted again, for some unknown reason. Gudrun’s boat
was travelling quickly, the lanterns were swinging behind
Gerald.

And then again came the child’s high, screaming voice,
with a note of weeping and impatience in it now:

** Di—Oh Di—Oh Di—Di—! ”

It was a terrible sound, coming through the obscure air
of the evening.

_ * You’d be better if you were in bed, Winnie,’”’ Gerald
muttered to himself.

He was stooping unlacing his shoes, pushing them off with
the foot. Then he threw his soft hat into the bottom of
the boat.

& ** You can’t go into the water with your hurt hand,”
, said Gudrun, panting, in a low voice of horror.

** What? It won’t hurt.’?

He had struggled out of his jacket, and had dropped it
between his feet. He sat bare-headed, all in white now.
He felt the belt at his waist. They were nearing the launch,
which stood still big above them, her myriad lamps mak-
ing lovely darts, and sinuous running tongues of ugly red
and green and yellow light on the lustrous dark water,
under the shadow. |

** Oh get her out! Oh Di, darling! Oh get her out!
Oh Daddy, Oh Daddy ! ’? moaned the child’s voice, in dis-

188 WOMEN IN LOVE

_ traction. Somebody was in the water, with a life belt. 7H!
Two boats paddled near, their lanterns swinging ineffectu-
ally, the boats nosing round.

** Hi there—Rockley !—hi there!” .

‘** Mr Gerald ! ’”? came the captain’s terrified voice. ‘* Miss
Diana’s in the water.”’

** Anybody gone in for her?’’ came Gerald’s sharp voice.

** Young Doctor Brindell, sir.”’

*¢ Where ?”’

** Can’t see no signs of them, sir. Everybody’s looking, —

but there’s nothing so far.”’

There was a moment’s ominous pause.

** Where did she go in?’’

** T think—about where that boat is,’’ came the uncertain
answer, ‘* that one with red and green lights.”’

** Row there,” said Gerald quietly to Gudrun.

** Get her out, Gerald, oh get her out,’’ the child’s voice
was crying anxiously. He took no heed.

** Lean back that way,’’ said Gerald to Gudrun, as he
stood up in the frail boat. ‘*‘ She won’t upset.”’

In another moment, he had dropped clean down, soft
and plumb, into the water. Gudrun was swaying violently
in her boat, the agitated water shook with transient lights,
she realised that it was faintly moonlight, and that he was
gone. So it was possible to be gone. A terrible sense of
fatality robbed her of all feeling and thought. She knew he
was gone out of the world, there was merely the same world,
and absence, his absence. The night seemed large and
vacuous. Lanterns swayed here and there, people were
talking in an undertone on the launch and in the boats. She
could hear Winifred moaning : *‘ Oh do find her Gerald, do
find her,’’ and someone trying to comfort the child. Gud-
run paddled aimlessly here and there. The terrible, mas-
sive, cold, boundless surface of the water terrified her
beyond words. Would he never come back? She felt she
must jump into the water too, to know the horror also.

She started, hearing someone say: ‘* There he is.”? She
saw the movement of his swimming, like a water-rat. And
she rowed involuntarily to him. But he was near another
boat, a biggerone. Still she rowed towards him. She must
be very near. She saw him—he looked like a seal. He
looked like a seal as he took hold of the side of the boat.
His fair hair was washed down on his round head, his face

a i S.- - - |
Sa a i

WATERPARTY 189

seemed to glisten suavely. She could hear him

panting.

- Then he clambered into the boat. Oh, and the beauty of
the subjection of his loins, white and dimly luminous as he
climbed over the side of the boat, made her want to die, to
die. The beauty of his dim and luminous loins as he
climbed into the boat, his back rounded and soft—ah, this
was too much for her, too final a vision. She knew it, and
it was fatal. The terrible hopelessness of fate, and of

_ beauty, such beauty !

He was not like a man to her, he was an incarnation, a

great phase of life. She saw him press the water out of his

face, and look at the bandage on his hand. And she knew
it was all no good, and that she would never go beyond him,

he was the final approximation of life to her.

“‘ Put the lights out, we shall see better,” came his
voice, sudden and mechanical and belonging to the world

- of man. She could scarcely believe there was a world of

man. She leaned round and blew out her lanterns. They
were difficult to blow out. Everywhere the lights were
gone save the coloured points on the sides of the launch.

’ The bluey-grey, early night spread level around, the moon

was overhead, there were shadows of boats here and there.

Again there was a splash, and he was gone under. Gudrun
sat, sick at heart, frightened of the great, level surface of
the water, so heavy and deadly. She was so alone, with the
level, unliving field of the water stretching beneath her. It
was not a good isolation, it was a terrible, cold separation
of suspense. She was suspended upon the surface of the in-
sidious reality until such time as she also should disappear
beneath it.

Then she knew, by a stirring of voices, that he had
climbed out again, into a boat. She sat wanting connection
with him. Strenuously she claimed her connection with
him, across the invisible space of the water. But round
her heart was an isolation unbearable, through which noth-
ing would penetrate.

** Take the launch in. It’s no use keeping her there.
Get lines for the dragging,’’ came the decisive, instrumental
voice, that was full of the sound of the world.

The launch began gradually to beat the waters.

** Gerald ! Gerald ! ’? came the wild crying voice of Wini-
fred. He did not answer. Slowly the launch drifted

190 WOMEN IN LOVE

round in a pathetic, clumsy circle, and slunk away to the
land, retreating into the dimness. The wash of her paddles
grew duller. Gudrun rocked in her light boat, and dipped
the paddle automatically to steady herself.

** Gudrun ?”’ called Ursula’s voice.

** Ursula! ”’

The boats of the two sisters pulled together.

** Where is Gerald ?’? said Gudrun.

** He’s dived again,’’ said Ursula plaintively. ‘* And I
know he ought not, with his hurt hand and everything.”’

** T’ll take him in home this time,”’ said Birkin.

The boats swayed again from the wash of steamer. Gud-
run and Ursula kept a look-out for Gerald.

** There he is! ’? cried Ursula, who had the sharpest eyes.
He had not been long under. Birkin pulled towards him,
Gudrun following. He swam slowly, and caught hold of
the boat with his wounded hand. It slipped, and he sank
back.

** Why don’t you help him ?”’ cried Ursula sharply.

He came again, and Birkin leaned to help him in to the
boat. Gudrun again watched Gerald climb out of the water,
but this time slowly, heavily, with the blind clambering ~
motions of an amphibious beast, clumsy. Again the moon
shone with faint luminosity on his white wet figure, on the
stooping back and the rounded loins. But it looked de-
feated now, his body, it clambered and fell with slow clum- —
siness. He was breathing hoarsely too, like an animal that
is suffering. He sat slack and motionless in the boat, his
head blunt and blind like a seal’s, his whole appearance in-
human, unkrowing. Gudrun shuddered as she mechanic-
ally followed his boat. Birkin rowed without speaking to
the landing-stage.

** Where are you going ?’? Gerald asked suddenly, as if
just waking up.

** Home,”’ said Birkin.

**Oh no! ”’ said Gerald imperiously. ‘* We can’t go
home while they’re in the water. Turn back again, I’m
going to find them.’? The women were frightened, his voice
was so imperative and dangerous, almost mad, not to be
opposed.

** No,”? said Birkin. ‘* You can’t.’? There was a
strange fluid compulsion in his voice. Gerald was silent in a
battle of wills. It was as if he would kill the other man.

WATER-PARTY 191 —

But Birkin rowed evenly and unswerving, with an inhuman
inevitability. \)

‘© Why should you interfere ?’’ said Gerald, in hate.

Birkin did not answer. He rowed towards the land.
And Gerald sat mute, like a dumb beast, panting,
his teeth chattering, his arms inert, his head like a
seal’s head.

They came to the landing-stage. Wet and naked-look-
ing, Gerald climbed up the few steps. There stood his
father, in the night.

‘* Father ! *’ he said.

** Yes my boy? Go home and get those things off.”’

** We shan’t save them, father,’”’ said Gerald.

** There’s hope yet, my boy.”’

**T’m afraid not. There’s no knowing where they are.
You can’t find them. And there’s a current, as cold as
hell.”’

** We’ll let the water out,’’ said the father. ‘*‘ Go home
you and look to yourself. See that he’s looked after,
Rupert,’’ he added in a neutral voice.

** Well father, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m afraid it’s my
fault. But it can’t be helped; I’ve done what I could for
the moment. I could go on diving, of course—not much,
though—and not much use— ”’

He moved away barefoot, on the planks of the platform.
Then he trod on something sharp.

** Of course, you’ve got no shoes on,’’ said Birkin.

** His shoes are here! ’? cried Gudrun from below. She
was making fast her boat.

Gerald waited for them to be brought to him. Gudrun
came with them. He pulled them on his feet.

** If you once die,’’ he said, ** then when it’s over, it’s
finished. Why come to life again? There’s room under
that water there for thousands.”’

** Two is enough,’’ she said murmuring.

He dragged on his second shoe. He was shivering vio-
lently, and his jaw shook as he spoke.

** That’s true,”’ he said, ‘* maybe. But it’s curious how
much room there seems, a whole universe under there; and
as cold as hell, you’re as helpless as if your head was cut
off.”* He could scarcely speak, be shook so violently.
** There’s one thing about our family, you know,”’’ he con-
tinued. ‘* Once anything goes wrong, it can never be put

Pa

Pett i I tly

ae Nee S od

192 - WOMEN IN LOVE

right again—not with us. I’ve noticed it all my life—you eS
can’t put a thing right, once it has gone wrong.”’ ak

They were walking across the high-road to the house.

** And do you know, when you are down there, it is so
cold, actually, and so endless, so different really from what
it is on top, so endless—you wonder how it is so many are
alive, why we’re up here. Are you going? I shall see you
again, shan’t I? Good-night, and thank you. Thank
you very much.” —

The two girls waited a while, to see if there were any hope.
The moon shone clearly overhead, with almost impertinent
brightness, the small dark boats clustered on the water, —
there were voices and subdued shouts. But it was all to no
purpose. Gudrun went home when Birkin returned.

He was commissioned to open the sluice that let out the
water from the lake, which was pierced at one end, near the
high-road, thus serving as a reservoir to supply with water
the distant mines, in case of necessity. ‘* Come with me,”
he said to Ursula, “* and then I will walk home with you,
when I’ve done this.”’

He called at the water-keeper’s cottage and took the key
of the sluice. They went through a little gate from the
high-road, to the head of the water, where was a great stone
basin which received the overflow, and a flight of stone
steps descended into the depths of the waiter itself. At the
head of the steps was the lock of the sluice-gate.

The night was silver-grey and perfect, save for the scat-
tered restless sound of voices. The grey sheen of the moon-
light caught the stretch of water, dark boats plashed and
moved. But Ursula’s mind ceased to be receptive, every-
thing was unimportant and unreal.

Birkin fixed the iron handle of the sluice, and turned it
with a wrench. The cogs began slowly to rise. He turned
and turned, like a slave, his white figure became distinct.
Ursula looked away. She could not bear to see him wind-
ing heavily and laboriously, bending and rising mechanic-
ally like a slave, turning the handle.

Then, a real shock to her, there came a loud splashing of
water from out of the dark, tree-filled hollow beyond the
road, a splashing that deepened rapidly to a harsh roar, and
then became. a heavy, booming noise of a great body of
water falling solidly all the time. It occupied the whole
of the night, this great steady booming of water, everything

WATERPARTY 193
was drowned within it, drowned and lost. Ursula seemed
to have to struggle for her life. She put her hands over her
ears, and looked at the high bland moon.

** Can’t we go now ?”’ she cried to Birkin, who was watch-
ing the water on the steps, to see if it would get any lower.

| It seemed to fascinate him. He looked at her and nodded.

The little dark boats had moved nearer, people were
crowding curiously along the hedge by the high-road, to see
what was to be seen. Birkin and Ursula went to the cottage
with the key, then turned their backs on the lake. She was

in great haste. She could not bear the terrible crushing

boom of the escaping water.

** Do you think they are dead ?”’ she cried in a high voice,
to make herself heard.

** Yes,’’ he replied.

** Isn’t it herrible ! ”’

He paid no heed. They walked up the hill, further and
further away from the noise.

** Do you mind very much ?”’ she asked him.

** [ don’t mind about the dead,”’ he said, ‘* once they are
dead. The worst of it is, they cling on to the oe and
won’t let go.”’

She pondered for a time.

** Yes,” she said. ‘* The fact of death doesn’t really
seem to matter much, does it ?’’

** No,”’ he said. ‘* What does it matter if Diana Crich
is alive or dead ?”’

** Doesn’t it ?’’ she said, shocked.

** No, why should it? Better she were dead—she’ll be
much more real. She’ll be positive in death. In life she

_ was a fretting, negated thing.’’

** You are rather horrible,’? murmured Ursula.

** No! I’d rather Diana Crich were dead. Her hving
somehow, was all wrong. As for the young man, poor
devil—he’ll find his way out quickly instead of slowly..
Death is all right—nothing better.’’

“Yet you don’t want to die,’ she challenged
him.

He was silent for a time. Then he said, in a voice that
was frightening to her in its’change :

** I should like to be through with it—I should like to be
through with the death process.”’

** And aren’t you?”’ asked Ursula nervously.

N

194 WOMEN IN LOVE

They walked on for some way in silence, under the trees.
Then he said, slowly, as if afraid :

** There is life which belongs to death, and there is life.

which isn’t death. One is tired of the life that belongs to
death—our kind of life. But whether it is finished, God
knows. I want love that is like sleep, like being born
again, vulnerable as a baby that just comes into the world.’’

Ursula listened, half attentive, half avoiding what he said.
She seemed to catch the drift of his statement, and then she
drew away. She wanted to hear, but she did not want to be
implicated. She was reluctant to yield there, where he
wanted her, to yield as it were her very identity.

** Why should love be like sleep ?”’ she asked sadly.

** IT don’t know. So that it is like death—I do want to
die from this life—and yet it is more than life itself. One

is delivered over like a naked infant from the womb, all the ©

old defences and the old body gone, and new air around
one, that has never been breathed before.”’

She listened, making out what he said. She knew, as
well as he knew, that words themselves do not convey mean-
ing, that they are but a gesture we make, a dumb show
like any other. And she seemed to feel his gesture through
her blood, and she drew back, even though her desire sent
her forward. :

** But,”’ she said gravely, ** didn’t you say you wanted
something that was not love—something beyond love ?”’

He turned in confusion. There was always confusion in
speech. Yet it must be spoken. Whichever way one
moved, if one were to move forwards, one must break a way
through. And to know, to give utterance, was to break a
way through the walls of the prison as the infant in labour
strives through the walls of the womb. There is no new
movement now, without the breaking through of the old
body, deliberately, in knowledge, in the struggle to get
out.

** T don’t want love,’’ he said. ‘* I don’t want to know
you. I want to be gone out of myself, and you to be lost
to yourself, sv we are found different. One shouldn’t talk
when one is tired and wretched. One Hamletises, and it
seems a lie. Only believe me when I show you a bit of
healthy pride and insouciance. I hate myself serious.’’

** Why shouldn’t you be serious ?”’ she said.

He thought for a minute, then he said, sulkily :

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WATERPARTY 195

**T don’t know.’’? Then they walked on in silence, at
outs. He was vague and lost.

*‘ Isn’t it strange,”? she said, suddenly putting her hand
on his arm, with a loving impulse, ‘ how we always talk
like this! I suppose we do love each other, in some way.”

** Oh yes,”’ he said; ** too much.”’

She laughed almost gaily.

** You’d have to have it your own way, wouldn’t you?”’
she teased. ‘* You could never take it on trust.”’ .

He changed, laughed softly, and turned and took her in
his arms, in the middle of the road.

** Yes,’ he said softly.
And he kissed her face and brow, slowly, gently, with a

sort of delicate happiness which surprised her extremely,

and to which she could not respond. They were soft, blind
kisses, perfect in their stillness. Yet she held back from
them. It was like strange moths, very soft and silent,
settling on her from the darkness of her soul. She was un-
easy. She drew away.

** Isn’t somebody coming ?’’ she said.

So they looked down the dark road, then set off again
walking towards Beldover. Then suddenly, to show him.
she was no shallow prude, she stopped and held him tight,
hard against her, and covered his face with hard, fierce
kisses of passion. In spite of his otherness, the old blood
beat up in him.

** Not this, not this,’? he whimpered to himself, as the
first perfect mood of softness and sleep-loveliness ebbed
back away from the rushing of passion that came up to his
limbs and over his face as she drew him. And soon he was
a perfect hard flame of passionate desire for her. Yet in
the small core of the flame was an unyielding anguish of
another thing. But this also was lost; he only wanted her,
with an extreme desire that seemed inevitable as death,
beyond question.

Then, satisfied and shattered, fulfilled and destroyed, he
went home away from her, drifting vaguely through the
darkness, lapsed into the old fire of burning passion. Far
away, far away, there seemed to be a small lament in the
darkness. But what did it matterr What did it matter,
what did anything matter save this ultimate and trium-
phant experience of physical passion, that had blazed up
anew like a new spell of life. ‘* 1 was becoming quite dead-

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196 | + $$WOMEN IN LOVE

alive, nothing but a word-bag,”’ he said in triumph, scorn-
ing his other self. Yet somewhere far off and small, the
other hovered.

The men were still dragging the lake when he got back.
He stood on the bank and heard Gerald’s voice. The water
was still booming in the night, the moon was fair, the hills
beyond were elusive. The iake was sinking. There came
the raw smell of the banks, in the night air.

Up at Shortlands there were lights in the windows, as if
nobody had gone to bed. On the landing-stage was the old
doctor, the father of the young man who was lost. He
stood quite silent, waiting. Birkin also stood and watched,
Gerald came up in a boat.

** You still here, Rupert??? he said. ‘* We can’t get
them. The bottom slopes, you know, very steep. The
water lies between two very sharp slopes, with little branch
valleys, and God knows where the drift will take you. It
isn’t as if it was a level bottom. You never know where
you are, with the dragging.”’

‘Ts there any need for you to be working?” said Bir-
kin. ‘* Wouldn’t it be much better if you went to bed ?”’

**To bed! Good God, do you think I should sleep?
We’ll find ’em, before I go away from here.”’

** But the men would find them just the same without
you—why should you insist ?”’

Gerald looked up at him. Then he put his hand affec-
tionately on Birkin’s shoulder, saying :

** Don’t you bother about me, Rupert. If there’s any-*
body’s health to think about, it’s yours, not mine. How do
you feel yourself ?”’

** Very well. But you, you spoil your own chance of life
—you waste your best self.’’

Gerald was silent for a moment. Then he said:

** Waste it? What else is there to do with it?’’

** But leave this, won’t you? You force yourself into
horrors, and put a mill- stone of beastly memories round
your neck, Come away now.’

** A mill-stone of beastly sean *? Gerald repeated.
Then he put his hand again affectionately on Birkin’s
shoulder. ‘* God, you’ve got such a telling way of putting
. things, Rupert, you have.’

Birkin’s heart sank. He was irritated and weary of hav-
ing a telling way of putting things. )

WATERPARTY 197

** Won’t you leave it? Come over to my place ’’—he
urged as one urges a drunken man.

** No,”’ said Gerald coaxingly, his arm across the other
man’s shoulder. ‘* Thanks very much, Rupert—l shall be
glad to come to-morrow, if that’ll do. You understand,
don’t you? I want to see this job through. But I’ll come
to-morrow, right enough. Oh, I’d rather come and have a
chat with you than—than do anything else, I verily believe.
Yes, I would. You mean a lot to me, Rupert, more than
you know.”’

** What do I mean, more than I know?’ asked
Birkin irritably. He was acutely aware of Gerald’s
hand on his shoulder. And he did not want this
altercation. He wanted the other man to come out
of the ugly misery.

** T’ll tell you another time,” said Gerald coaxingly.

** Come along with me now—lI want you to come,”’ said
Birkin.

There was a pause, intense and real. Birkin wondered
why his own heart beat so heavily. Then Gerald’s fingers
gripped hard and communicative into Birkin’s shoulder, as
he said :

** No, I’ll see this job through, Rupert. Thank you—I
know what you mean. We’re all right, you know, you and
me.”

** I may be all right, but I’m sure you’re not, mucking
about here,’’ said Birkin. And he went away.
* The bodies of the dead were not recovered till towards

dawn. Diana had her arms tight round the neck of the

young man, choking him.

** She killed him,’’ said Gerald.

The moon sloped down the sky and sank at last. The
lake was sunk to quarter size, it had horrible raw banks of
clay, that smelled of raw rottenish water. Dawn roused
faintly behind the eastern hill. The water still boomed
through the sluice.

As the birds were whistling for the first morning, and the
hills at the back of the desolate lake stood radiant with the
new mists, there was a straggling procession up to Short-
lands, men bearing the bodies on a stretcher, Gerald going
beside them, the two grey-bearded fathers following in
silence. Indoors the family was all sitting up, waiting.
Somebody must go to tell the mother, in her room. The

198 WOMEN IN ‘LOVE.

doctor in secret struggled to bring back his son, till he him- _
self was exhausted.
Over all the outlying district was a hush of dreadful ex-_
citement on that Sunday morning. The colliery people felt
as if this catastrophe had happened directly to themselves,
indeed they were more shocked and frightened than if their
own men had been killed. Such a tragedy in Shortlands,
the high home of the district! One of the young mistresses,
persisting in dancing on the cabin roof of the launch, wilful —
young madam, drowned in the midst of the festival, with

the young doctor! Everywhere on the Sunday morning, —

the colliers wandered about, discussing the calamity. At
all the Sunday dinners of the people, there seemed a strange
presence. It was as if the angel of death were very near,
there was a sense of the supernatural in the air. The men
had excited, startled faces, the women looked solemn, some
of them had been crying. The children enjoyed the excite-
ment at first. There was an intensity in the air, almost
magical. Did all enjoy it? Did all enjoy the thrill?

Gudrun had wild ideas of rushing to comfort Gerald.
She was thinking all the time of the perfect comforting, re-
assuring thing to say to him. She was shocked and fright-
ened, but she put that away, thinking of how she should
deport herself with Gerald : act her part. That was the real
thrill : how she should act her part.

Ursula was deeply and passionately in love with Birkin,
and she was capable of nothing. She was perfectly callous
about all the talk of the accident, but her estranged air
looked like trouble. She merely sat by herself, whenever
she could, and longed to see him again. She wanted him
to come to the house,—she would not have it otherwise, he
must come at once. She was waiting for him. She stayed
indoors all day, waiting for him to knock at the door.
Every minute, she glanced automatically at the window.
He would be there.

CHAP: XV. SUNDAY EVENING

As the day wore on, the life-blood seemed to ebb away from
Ursula, and within the emptiness a heavy despair gathered.
Her passion seemed to bleed to death, and there was noth-
ing. She sat suspended in a state of, complete nullity, har-
der to bear than death.

** Unless something happens,”’ she said to herself, in the
perfect lucidity of final suffering, ‘‘ I shall die. 1 am at the
end of my line of life.’’

She sat crushed and obliterated in a darkness that was the
border of death. She realised how all her life she had been
drawing nearer and nearer to this brink, where there was no
beyond, from which one had to leap like Sappho into the
unknown. The knowledge of the imminence of death was
like a drug. Darkly, without thinking at all, she knew
that she was near to death. She had travelled all her life
along the line of fulfilment, and it was nearly concluded.
She knew all she had to know, she had experienced all she
had to experience, she was fulfilled in a kind of bitter ripe-
riess, there remained only to fall from the tree into death.
And one must fulfil one’s development to the end, must
carry the adventure to its conclusion. And the next step
was over the border into death. So it was then! There
was a certain peace in the knowledge. .

After all, when one was fulfilled, one was happiest in fall-
ing into death, as a bitter fruit plunges in its ripeness down-
wards. Death is a great consummation, a consummating
experience. It is a development from life. That we know,
while we are yet living. What then need we think for fur-
ther? One can never see beyond the consummation. It is
enough that death is a great and conclusive experience.
Why should we ask what comes after the experience, when
the experience is still unknown to us? Let us die, since the
great experience is the one that follows now upon all the
rest, death, which is the next great crisis in front of which
we have arrived. If we wait, if we baulk the issue, we do
but hang about the gates in undignified uneasiness. There
it is, in front of us, as in front of Sappho, the illimitable
space. Thereinto goes the journey. Have we not the

199

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200 “WOMEN IN LOVE os

courage to go on with our journey, must we cry ‘I daren’t’?
On ahead we will go, into death, and whatever death may
mean. If a mam can see the next step to be taken, why
should he fear the next but one? Why ask about the next
but one? Of the next step we are certain. It is the step
into death.

** I shall die—I shall quickly die,’’ said Ursula to herself,
clear as if in a trance, clear, calm, and certain beyond
human certainty. But somewhere behind, in the twilight,
there was a bitter weeping and a hopelessness. That must
not be attended to. One must go where the unfaltering
spirit goes, there must be no baulking the issue, because of
fear. No baulking the issue, no listening to the lesser
voices. If the deepest desire be now, to go on into the un-~
known of death, shall one forfeit the deepest truth for one
more shallow?

** Then let it end,’’ she said to herself. It was a decision.
It was not a question of taking one’s life—she would never
kill herself, that was repulsive and violent. It was a ques-
tion of knowing the next step. And the next step ay into
the space of death. Did it P—or was there

Her thoughts drifted into unconsciousness, she a as if
asleep beside the fire. And then the thought came back.
The space of death! Could she give herself to it? Ah
‘yes—it was asleep. She had had enough. So long she had
held out and resisted. Now was the time to relinquish, not
to resist any more.

In a kind of spiritual trance, she yielded, she gave way,
and all was dark. She could feel, within the darkness, the
terrible assertion of her body, the unutterable anguish of
dissolution, the only anguish that is too much, the far-off,
awful nausea of dissolution set in within the body.

** Does the body correspond so immediately with the
spirit ??’ she asked herself. And she knew, with the clarity
of ultimate knowledge, that the body is only one of the
manifestations of the spirit, the transmutation of the integral
spirit is the transmutation of the physical body as well. Un-
less I set my will, unless I absolve myself from the rhythm of
life, fix myself and remain static, cut off from living, ab-
solved within my own will. But better die than live
mechanically a life that is a repetition of repetitions. To
die is to move on with the invisible. To die is also a joy,
a joy of submitting to that which is greater than the known,

haat’ ?

“SUNDAY EVENING 201

namely, the pure unknown. That is a joy. But to live
mechanised and cut off within the motion of the will, to live
as an entity absolved from the unknown, that is shameful
and ignominious. There is no ignominy in death. There
is complete ignominy in an unreplenished, mechanised life.
Life indeed may be ignominious, shameful to the soul. But
death is never a shame. Death itself, like the illimitable
space, is beyond our sullying.

To-morrow was Monday. Monday, the beginning of an-
other school-week ! Another shameful, barren school-week,
mere routine and mechanical activity. Was not the adven-
ture of death infinitely preferable? Was not death infin-
itely more lovely and noble than such a life? A life of
barren routine, without inner meaning, without any real sig-
nificance. How sordid life was, how it was a terrible shame
to the soul, to live now! How much cleaner and more
dignified to be dead! One could not bear any more of this
shame of sordid routine and mechanical nullity. One might
come to fruit in death. She had had enough. For where
was life to be found? No flowers grow upon busy
machinery, there is no sky to a routine, there is no space to
arotary motion. And all life was a rotary motion, mechan-
ised, cut off from reality. There was nothing to look for
from life—it was the same in all countries and all peoples.
The only window was death. One could look out on to the
great dark sky of death with elation, as one had looked out
of the class-room window as a child, and seen perfect free-
dom in the outside. Now one was not a child, and one
knew that the soul was a prisoner within this sordid vast
edifice of life, and there was no escape, save in death.

But what a joy! What a gladness to think that whatever
humanity did, it could not seize hold of the kingdom of
death, to nullify that. The sea they turned into a mur-
derous alley and a soiled road of commerce, disputed like
the dirty land of a city every inch of it. The air they
claimed too, shared it up, parcelled it out to certain owners,
they trespassed in the air to fight for it. Everything was
gone, walled in, with spikes on top of the walls, and one
must ignominiously creep between the spiky walls through
a labyrinth of life.

But the great, dark, illimitable kingdom of death, there
humanity was put to scorn. So-much they could do upon
earth, the multifarious little gods that they were. But the

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202 WOMEN IN LOVE.

kingdom of death put them all to scorn, they dwindled into !

their true vulgar silliness in face of it.

How beautiful, how grand and perfect death was, how :
good to look forward to. There one would wash off all the —

lies and ignominy and dirt that had been put upon one here,
a perfect bath of cleanness and glad refreshment, and go
unknown, unquestioned, unabased. After all, one was rich,
if only in the promise of perfect death. It was a gladness
above all, that this remained to look forward to, the pure
inhuman otherness of death.

Whatever life might be, it could not take away death, the

inhuman transcendent death. Oh, let us ask no question of

it, what it is or is not. To know is human, and in death we

do not know, we are not human. And the joy of this com- —

pensates for all the bitterness of knowledge and the sordid-
ness of our humanity. In death we shall not be human, and
we shall not know. The promise of this is our heritage, we
look forward like heirs to their majority.

Ursula sat quite still and quite forgotten, alone by the

fire in the drawing-room. The children were playing in the
kitchen, all the others were gone to church. And she was
gone into the ultimate darkness of her own soul.

She was startled by hearing the bell ring, away in the ©

kitchen, the children came scudding along the passage in
delicious alarm.

** Ursula, there’s somebody.”’

‘*T know. Don’t be silly,’’ she replied. She too was
startled, almost frightened. She dared hardly go to the
door.

Birkin stood on the threshold, his rain-coat turned up to
his ears. He had come now, now she was gone far away.
She was aware of the rainy night behind him.

** Oh is it you ?’’ she said.

**T am glad you are at home,”’ he said in a low voice,
entering the house.

aly They are all gone to church.”’

He took off his coat and hung it up. The children were
peeping at him round the corner.

‘© Go and get undressed now, Billy and Dora,’ said ©
Ursula. °** Mother will be back soon, and she’ll be dis-

appointed if you’re not in bed.”
The children, in a sudden angelic mood, retired without a
word. Birkin and Ursula went into the drawing-room.

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SUNDAY EVENING pada st ak

, The fire burned low. He looked at ‘her and wondered at the

luminous delicacy of her beauty, and the wide shining of her
eyes. He watched from a distance, with wonder in his
heart, she seemed transfigured with light. -

‘‘ What have you been doing all day?’ he asked her.

** Only sitting about,’’ she said.

He looked at her. There was a change in her. But she
was separate from him. She remained apart, in a kind of

‘brightness. They both sat silent in the soft light of the

lamp. He felt he ought to go away again, he ought not to
have come. Still he did not gather enough resolution to
move. But he was. de trop, her mood was absent and
separate.

Then there came the voices of the two children calling
shyly outside the door, softly, ih self-excited timidity :

** Ursula! Ursula! ”’

She rose and opened the door. On the threshold stood

the two children in their long nightgowns, with wide-eyed,

angelic faces. They were being very good for the moment,
playing the réle perfectly of two obedient children.

** Shall you take us to bed! ”’ said Billy, in a loud
whisper.

*¢ Why you are angels to-night,”’ she said softly. ‘* Won’t
you come and say good-night to Mr Birkin ?’’

The children merged shyly into the room, on bare feet.
Billy’s face was wide and grinning, but there was a great
solemnity of being good in his round blue eyes. Dora,
peeping from the floss of her fair hair, hung back like some
tiny Dryad, that has no soul.

** Will you say good-night to me?’’ asked Birkin, in a
voice that was strangely soft and smooth. Dora drifted
away at once, like a leaf lifted on a breath of wind. But
Billy went softly forward, slow and willing, lifting his
pinched-up mouth implicitly to be kissed. Ursula watched
the full, gathered lips of the man gently touch those of the

_ boy, so gently. Then Birkin lifted his fingers and touched

the boy’s round, confiding cheek, with a faint touch of love.
Neither spoke. Billy seemed angelic like a cherub boy, or
like an acolyte, Birkin was a tall, grave angel looking down
to him.

* Are you going to be kissed ?’’ Ursula broke in, speaking
to the little girlk But Dora edged away like a tiny Dryad
that will not be touched.

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204, WOMENINLOVE ——

** Won’t you say good-night to Mr Birkin? Go, he’s —
waiting for you,”’ said Ursula. But the girl-child only made —
a little motion away from him.

** Silly Dora, silly Dora! ’”’ said Ursula.

Birkin felt some mistrust and antagonism in the small

child. He could not understand it.

** Come then,” said Ursula. ‘* Let us go before mother

comes.’’

** Who’ll hear us say our prayers ?’’ asked Billy anxiously.
‘© Whom you like.”

** Won’t you?”

** Yes, I will.”

** Ursula ?”’

** Well Billy ?’’

** Is it whom you like ?”’

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** Well what is whom?”’

** It’s the accusative of who.”’

There was a moment’s contemplative silence, then the

confiding :

so T8' 30 8?
Birkin smiled to himself as he sat by the fire. When

Ursula came down he sat motionless, with his arms on his

knees. She saw him, how he was motionless and ageless,
like some crouching idol, some image of a deathly religion.
He looked round at her, and his face, very pale and unreal,
seemed to gleam with a whiteness almost phosphorescent.

** Don’t you feel well?’ she asked, in indefinable repul-

sion.

** | hadn’t thought about it.”’

** But don’t you know without thinking about it ?”’

He looked at her, his eyes dark and swift, and he saw her
revulsion. He did not answer her question.

** Don’t you know whether you are unwell or not, with-

out thinking about it ?’’ she persisted.

** Not always,’’ he said coldly.

** But don’t you think that’s very wicked ?”’

** Wicked ?’’

** Yes. I think it’s criminal to have so little connection
with your own body that you don’t even know when you

are ill.”’

He looked at her darkly.
** Yes,’ he said.

SUNDAY EVENING 205

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_** Why don’t you stay in bed when you are seedy? You

__ look perfectly ghastly.”

** Offensively so ?’’ he asked ironically.

** Yes, quite offensive. Quite repelling.”’

“© Ah! ! Well that’s unfortunate.’’

** And it’s raining, and it’s a horrible night. Really, you
shouldn’t be forgiven for treating your body like it—you
ought to suffer, a man who takes as little notice of his body

_ as that.’’

** __ takes as little notice of his body as that,’’ he echoed
mechanically.

This cut her short, and there was silence.

The others came in from church, and the two had the
girls to face, then the mother and Gudrun, and then the
father and the boy.

** Good-evening,’’ said Brangwen, faintly surprised.
** Came to see me, did you ?”’

** No,’’ said Birkin, ‘* not about anything in particular,
that is. The day was dismal, and I thought you wouldn’t
mind if I called in.’’

** It has been a depressing day,’’ said Mrs Brangwen
sympathetically. At that moment the voices of the chil-
dren were heard calling from upstairs : ‘‘Mother ! Mother !”’
She lifted her face and answered mildly into the distance :
** T shall come up to you in a minute, Doysie.’’ Then to
Birkin : ** There is nothing fresh at Shortlands, I suppose?
Ah,” she sighed, ** no, poor things, I should think not.’’

** You’ve been over there to-day, I suppose??? asked the
father.

** Gerald came round to tea with me, and I walked back
with him. The house is overexcited and unwholesome, I
thought.”’

** I should think they were people who hadn’t much re-
straint,’’ said Gudrun.

** Or too much,’’ Birkin answered.

** Oh yes, I’m sure,’’ said Gudrun, almost vindictively,
_ ** one or the other.”’

** They all feel they ought to behave in some unnatural
fashion,”’ said Birkin. ‘‘ When people are in grief, they
would do better to cover their faces and keep in retire-
ment, as in the old days.”’

** Certainly! ’’ cried Gudrun, flushed and inflammable.
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206 WOMEN IN LOVE

horrible, more false! If grief is not private, and hidden, _
what is ?”” |

** Exactly,’’ he said. ‘* I felt ashamed when I was there |
and they were all going about in a lugubrious false way, feel-
ing they musi not be natural or ordinary.”’

‘* Well— ”’ said Mrs Brangwen, offended at this criticism,
** it isn’t so easy to bear a trouble like that.”’

And she went upstairs to the children.

He remained only a few minutes longer, then took his
leave. When he was gone Ursula felt such a poignant
hatred of him, that all her brain seemed turned into a sharp
crystal of fine hatred. Her whole nature seemed sharpened
and intensified into a pure dart of hate. She could not
imagine what it was. It merely took hold of her, the most
poignant and ultimate hatred, pure and clear and beyond
thought. She could not think of it at all, she was trans-
lated beyond herself. It was like a possession. She felt
she was possessed. And for several days she went about
possessed by this exquisite force of hatred against him. It
surpassed anything she had ever known before, it seemed to
throw her out of the world into some terrible region where
nothing of her old life held good. She was quite lost and
dazed, really dead to her own life.

It was so completely incomprehensible and _ irrational.
She did not know why she hated him, her hate was quite
abstract. She had only realised with a shock that stunned
her, that she was overcome by this pure transportation.
He was the enemy, fine as a diamond, and as
hard and jewel-like, the quintessence of all that was
inimical.

She thought of his face, white and purely wrought, and
of his eyes that had such a dark, constant will of assertion,
and she touched her own forehead, to feel if she were mad,
she was so transfigured in white flame of essential hate.

It was not temporal, her hatred, she did not hate him for
this or for that; she did not want to do anything to him, to
have any connection with him. Her relation was ultimate
and utterly beyond words, the hate was so pure and gem- —
like. It was as if he were a beam of essential enmity, a
beam of light that did not only destroy her, but denied her
altogether, revoked her whole world. She saw him as a
clear stroke of uttermost contradiction, a strange gem-like
being whose existence defined her own non-existence. When

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CHAP: XVI. MAN TO MAN

HE lay sick and unmoved, in pure opposition to everything.
He knew how near to breaking was the vessel that held his
life. He knew also how strong and durable it was. And he
did not care. Better a thousand times take one’s chance
with death, than accept a life one did not want. But best
of all to persist and persist and persist for ever, till one were
satisfied in life.

He knew that Ursula was referred back to him. He knew
his life rested with her. But he would rather not live than
accept the love she proffered. The old way of love seemed
a dreadful bondage, a sort of conscription. What it was in
him he did not know, but the thought of love, marriage,
and children, and a life lived together, in the horrible
privacy of domestic and connubial satisfaction, was repul-
sive. He wanted something clearer, more open, cooler, as
it were. The hot narrow intimacy between man and wife
was abhorrent. The way they shut their doors, these mar-
ried people, and shut themselves in to their own exclusive
alliance with each other, even in love, disgusted him. It
was a whole community of mistrustful couples insulated in
private houses or private rooms, always in couples, and no
further life, no further immediate, no disinterested relation-
ship admitted : a kaleidoscope of couples, disjoined, separa-
tist, meaningless entities of married couples. True, he
hated promiscuity even worse than marriage, and a l@ison
was only another kind of coupling, reactionary from the
legal marriage. Reaction was a greater bore than action.

On the whole, he hated sex, it was such a limitation. It
was sex that turned a man into a broken half of a couple,
the woman into the other broken half. And he wanted to
be single in himself, the woman single in herself. He
wanted sex to revert to the level of the other appetites, to
be regarded as a functional process, not as a fulfilment. He
believed in sex marriage. But beyond this, he wanted a
further conjunction, where man had being and woman had
being, two pure beings, each constituting the freedom of the
other, balancing each other like two poles of one force, like
two angels, or two demons.

; 208

MAN TO MAN Pee ray

He wanted so much to be free, not under the compulsion
_ of any need for unification, or tortured by unsatisfied de-
_ sire. Desire and aspiration should find their object without
all this torture, as now, in a world of plenty of water, simple
E. thirst is inconsiderable, satisfied almost unconsciously. And
_ he wanted to be with Ursula as free as with himself, single
_ and clear and cool, yet balanced, polarised with her. The
merging, the clutching, the mingling of love was become
madly abhorrent to him.

But it seemed to him, woman was always so horrible and
clutching, she had such a lust for possession, a greed of self-
importance in love. She wanted to have, to own, to con-
trol, to be dominant. Everything must be referred back to
her, to Woman, the Great Mother of everything, out of
whom proceeded everything and to whom everything must
finally be rendered up.

It filled him with almost insane fury, this calm assump-
tion of the Magna Mater, that all was hers, because she had
borne it. Man was hers because she had borne him. A
Mater Dolorosa, she had borne him, a Magna Mater, she
now claimed him again, soul and body, sex, meaning, and
all. He had a horror of the Magna Mater, she was detest-
able.

She was on a very high horse again, was woman, the Great
Mother. Did he not know it in Hermione. Hermione, the
humble, the subservient, what was she all the while but the
Mater Dolorosa, in her subservience, claiming with horrible,
insidious arrogance and female tyranny, her own again,
claiming back the man she had borne in suffering. By her
very suffering and humility she bound her son with chains,
she held him her everlasting prisoner.

_ And Ursula, Ursula was the same—or the inverse. She
_ too was the awful, arrogant queen of life, as if she were a
_ queen bee on whom all the rest depended. He saw the
_ yellow flare in her eyes, he knew the unthinkable overween-
_ ing assumption of primacy in her. She was unconscious of
itherself. She was only too ready to knock her head on the
_ ground before a man. But this was only when she was so
certain of her man, that she could worship him as a woman
worships her own infant, with a worship of perfect posses-
sion.
. It was intolerable, this possession at the hands of woman.
_ Always a man must be considered as the broken-off frag-

a

nd = 2p prod ren es ~

FEE TY ECO SID Ge aR eee et ee nang
ee A a ie Fae
y Liters en Eh ieee

210 WOMEN IN LOVE

ment of a woman, and the sex was the still aching scar of

the laceration. Man must be added on to a woman, before
he had any real place or wholeness.

And why? Why should we consider ourselves, men and
women, as broken fragments of one whole? It is not true.
We are not broken fragments of one whole. Rather we
are the singling away into purity and clear being, of things
that were mixed. Rather the sex is that which remains in
us of the mixed, the unresolved. And passion is the fur-
ther separating of this mixture, that which is manly being
taken into the being of the man, that which is womanly
passing to the woman, till the two are clear and whole as
angels, the admixture of sex in the highest sense surpassed,
leaving two single beings constellated together like two
stars.

In the old age, before sex was, we were mixed, each one

a mixture. The process of singling into individuality re-

sulted into the great polarisation of sex. The womanly
drew to one side, the manly to the cther. But the separa-
tion was imperfect even them. And so our world-cycle
passes. There is now to come the new day, when we are
beings each of us, fulfilled in difference. The man is pure
man, the woman pure woman, they are perfectly polarised.
But there is no longer any of the horrible merging, mingling
self-abnegation of love. There is only the pure duality of
polarisation, each one free from any contamination of the
other. In each, the individual is primal, sex is subordinate,
but perfectly polarised. Each has a single, separate being,
with its own laws. The man has his pure freedom, the
woman hers. Each acknowledges the perfection of the
polarised sex-circuit. Each admits the different nature in
the other. |

So Birkin meditated whilst he was ill. He liked some-
times to be iil enough to take to his bed. For then he got
better-very quickly, and things came to him clear and sure.

Whilst he was laid up, Gerald came to see him. The two
men had a deep, uneasy feeling for each other. Gerald’s
eyes were quick and restless, his whole manner tense and
impatient, he seemed strung up to some activity. According
to conventionality, he wore black clothes, he looked formal,
handsome and comme il faut. His hair was fair almost to

whiteness, sharp like splinters of light, his face was keen and ©

ruddy, his body seemed full of northern energy.

eh eran tiie aaa
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PO AGS PRD."
2 OF a a

MAN TO MAN 211

Gerald really loved Birkin, though he never quite believed
in him. Birkin was too unreal ;—clever, whimsical, won-
derful, but not practical enough. Gerald felt that his own
understanding was much sounder and safer. Birkin was
_ delightful, a wonderful spirit, but after all, not to be

taken seriously, not quite to be counted as a man among

men.

“© Why are you laid up again?’ he asked kindly, taking
the sick man’s hand. It was always Gerald who was pro-
tective, offering the warm shelter of his physical strength.

‘** For my sins, I suppose,’’ Birkin said, smiling a little
ironically.

** For your sins? Yes, probably that is so. You should
sin less, and keep better in health ?”’

** You’d better teach me.”’

He looked at Gerald with ironic eyes.

** How are things with you?’ asked Birkin.

** With me??? Gerald looked at Birkin, saw he was
serious, and a warm light came into his eyes.

** I don’t know that they’re any different. 1 don’t see
how they could be. There’s nothing to change.”’

** IT suppose you are conducting the business as success-
_ fully as ever, and ignoring the demand of the soul.”’
| ** That’s it,”’ said Gerald. ‘* At least as far as the busi-

ness is concerned. I couldn’t say about the soul, I’m
sure.”’

i. ae No.”
§ ** Surely you don’t expect me to?’’ laughed Gerald.
_ ** No. How are the rest of your affairs progressing, apart
_ from the business ?’’
_ ** The rest of my affairs? What are those? I couldn’t
_ say; I don’t know what you refer to.”’
_ ** Yes, you do,”’ said Birkin. ‘‘ Are you gloomy or cheer-
- ful? And what about Gudrun Brangwen ?’’
_ ** What about her?’’? A confused look came over Gerald.
_ ** Well,”’ he added, ‘* I don’t know. I can only tell you
_ She gave he a hit over the face last time I saw her.’’
_ ‘** A hit over the face! What for ?”’

** That I couldn’t tell you, either.’’

** Really! But when?’’
_ * The night of the party—when Diana was drowned. She
_ was driving the cattle up the hill, and I went after her—you
_ remember.’’

ES ns eb oy."

212 WOMEN IN LOVE "

** Yes, I remember. But what made her do that? You

didn’t definitely ask her for it, I suppose ?”’

“1? No, not that I know of. I merely said to her, that
it was dangerous to drive those Highland bullocks—as it ts. -

She turned ia such a way, and said-—‘ I suppose you think

I’m afraid of you and your cattle, don’t you?’ So I asked —

her ‘ why,’ and for answer she flung me a _ back-hander
across the face.”’

Birkin laughed quickly, as if it pleased him. Gerald

looked at him, wondering, and began to laugh as well,
saying :

** I didn’t laugh at the time, I assure you. I was never
so taken aback in my life.”’

** And weren’t you furious ?”’

** Furious? I should think I was. I’d have murdered
her for two pins.’

** H’m! ” ejaculated Birkin. ‘* Poor Gudrun, wouldn’t
she suffer afterwards for having given herself away! ”’? He
was hugely delighted.

** Would she suffer ?’? asked Gerald, also amused. now.

Both men smiled in malice and amusement.

** Badly, I should think ; seeing how self-conscious she is.”’

** She is self-conscious, is she? Then what made her do
it? For I certainly think it was quite uncalled-for, and
quite unjustified.”

** I suppose it was a sudden impulse.”’

** Yes, but how do you account for her having such an

impulse? I’d done her no harm.”
_ Birkin shook his head.

** The Amazon suddenly came up in her, I suppose,’? he

said.

** Well,’’ replied Gerald, ‘* I’d rather it had been the
Orinoco.”’

They both laughed at the poor joke. Gerald was

thinking how Gudrun had said she would strike the last blow ©

too. But some reserve made him keep this back from
Birkin.
** And you resent it ?”’ Birkin asked.

** T don’t resent it. I don’t care a tinker’s curse about

it.”* He was silent a moment, then he added, laughing,
** No, [ll see it through, that’s all. She seemed sorry
afterwards.’ Ng

** Did she? You’ve not met since that night ?’’

MAN TO MAN | 213

Gerald’s face clouded.

** No,”’ he said. ‘* We’ve been—you can imagine how
it’s heen, since the accident.”’

** Yes. Is it calming down ?”’

‘*T don’t know. It’s a shock, of course. But I don’t
believe mother minds. I really don’t believe she takes any
notice. And what’s so funny, she used to be all for the
children—nothing mattered, nothing whatever mattered but
the children. And now, she doesn’t take any more notice
than if it was one of the servants.’

‘* No? Did it upset you very much ?”’

** It’s a shock. But I don’t feel it very much, really. |
don’t feel any different. We’ve all got to die, and it doesn’t
seem to make any great difference, anyhow, whether you die
or not. I can’t feel any grief, you know. It leaves me
cold. I can’t quite account for it.’’

** You don’t care if you die or not ?”’ asked Birkin.

Gerald looked at him with eyes blue as the blue-fibred
steel of a weapon. He felt awkward, but indifferent. As
a matter of fact, he did care terribly, with a great fear.

Oh,’ he said, ** I don’t want to die, why should I?
But I never trouble. The question doesn’t seem to be on
the carpet for me at all. It doesn’t interest me, you know.”’

** Timor mortis conturbat me,’’ quoted Birkin, adding—
** No, death doesn’t really seem the point any more. = It
curiously doesn’t concern one. It’s like an ordinary to-
morrow.”’

Gerald looked closely at his friend. The eyes of the two
men met, and an unspoken understanding was exchanged.

Gerald narrowed his eyes, his face was cool and unscru-
pulous as he looked at Birkin, impersonally, with a vision
that ended in a point in space, strangely keen-eyed and yet
blind.

** If death isn’t the point,’ he said, in a strangely ab-
stract, cold, fine voice—‘* what is?’’ He sounded as if he
had been found out. oh ies

** What is ?”’ re-echoed Birkin. And there was a mocking
silence.

** There’s a long way to go, after the point of intrinsic
death, before we disappear,”’ said Birkin.

** There is,” said Gerald. ‘* But what sort of way?’ |
He seemed te press the other man for knowledge which he
himself knew far better than Birkin did.

Tar ete | OE ae 1 J og. a? SP
+ eee Lm : ma Pe AT tae ory Ty ee ar
4 y ries 4 ae eS
¢

UTLEY

214 - WOMEN IN LOVE

** Right down the slopes of degeneration—mystic, uni-
versal degeneration. There are many stages of pure
degradation to go through: agelong. We live on long
after our death, and progressively, in progressive devolu-
tion.””

Gerald listened with a faint, fine smile on his face, all the
time, as if, somewhere, he knew so much better than Bir-
kin, all about this : as if his own knowledge were direct and
personal, whereas Birkin’s was a matter of observation and
inference, not quite hitting the nail on the head :—though
aiming near enough at it. But he was not going to give
himself away. If Birkin could get at the secrets, let him.
Gerald would never help him. Gerald would be a dark
horse to the end.

** Of course,’’ he said, with a startling change of conver-
sation, ‘* it is father who really feels it. It will finish him.
For him the world collapses. All his care now is for Winnie
—he must save Winnie. He says she ought to be sent away
to school, but she won’t hear of it, and he’ll never do it. Of
course she is in rather a queer way. We’re all of us
curiously bad at living. We can do things—but we can’t
get on with life at all. It’s curious—a family failing.”’

** She oughtn’t to be sent away to school,” said Birkin,
who was considering a new proposition.

** She oughtn’t. Why?”

** She’s a queer child—a special child, more special even
than you. And in my opinion special children should never
be sent away to school. Only moderately ordinary children |
should be sent to school—so it seems to me.”’

** 1’m inclined to think just the opposite. I think it
would probably make her more normal if she went away and
mixed with cther children.”

** She wouldn’t mix, you see. You never really mixed,
did you? And she wouldn’t be willing even to pretend to.
She’s proud, and solitary, and naturally apart. If she has
a single nature, why do you want to make her gregarious ?”’

** No, I don’t want to make her anything. But I think
school would be good for her.’’ |

** Was it good for you ?”’

Gerald’s eyes narrowed uglily. School had been torture
to him. Yet he had not questioned whether one should go
through this torture. He seemed to believe in education
through subjection and torment.

MAN TO MAN 215

‘‘ T hated it at the time, but I can see it was necessary,”
he said. ‘‘ It brought me into line a bit—and you can’t

live unless you do come into line somewhere.”

‘¢ Well,”’ said Birkin, ‘‘ I begin to think that you can’t
live unless you keep entirely out of the line. It’s no good
trying to toe the line, when your one impulse is to smash up
the line. Winnie is a special nature, and for special natures
you must give a special world.”’

‘© Yes, but where’s your special world ?”’ said Gerald.

*‘ Make it. Instead of chopping yourself down to fit the
world, chop the world down to fit yourself. As a matter of
fact, two exceptional people make another world. You and
I, we make another, separate world. You don’t want a
world same as your brothers-in-law. It’s just the special
quality you value. Do you want to be normal or ordinary !
It’s a lie. You want to be free and extraordinary, in an
extraordinary world of liberty.”’

Gerald looked at Birkin with subtle eyes of knowledge.
But he would never openly admit what he felt. He knew
more than Birkin, in one direction—much more. And this
gave him his gentle love for the other man, as if Birkin were
in some way young, innocent, child-like: so amazingly
clever, but incurably innocent. :

*¢ Yet you are so banal as to consider me chiefly a freak,”’
said Birkin pointedly.

“6 A freak ! ’? exclaimed Gerald, startled. And his face
opened suddenly, as if lighted with simplicity, as when a
flower opens out of the cunning bud. ‘* No—I never con-
sider you a freak.’? And he watched the other man with
strange eyes, that Birkin could not understand. ‘‘ I feel,”
Gerald continued, ‘‘ that there is always an element of un-
certainty about you—perhaps you are uncertain about
yourself. But I’m never sure of you. You can go away
and change as easily as if you had no soul.”’

He looked at Birkin with penetrating eyes. Birkin was
amazed. He thought he had all the soul in the world. He
stared in amazement. And Gerald, watching, saw the amaz-
ing attractive goodliness of his eyes, a young, spontaneous |
goodness that attracted the other man infinitely, yet filled
him with bitter chagrin, because he mistrusted it so much.

_He knew Birkin could do without him—could forget, and not

suffer. This was always present in Gerald’s consciousness,
filling him with bitter unbelief: this consciousness of the

216 “WOMEN IN LOVE.

young, animal-like spontaneity of detachment. It seemed

almost like hypocrisy and lying, sometimes, oh, often, on -

Birkin’s part, to talk so deeply and importantly.
Quite other things were going through Birkin’s mind.

Suddenly he saw himself confronted with another problem—_

the problem of love and eternal conjunction between two
men. Of course this was necessary—it had been a necessity
inside himself all his life—to love a man purely and fully.

Of course he had been loving Gerald all along, and all along

denying it.

He lay in the bed and wondered, whilst his friend sat be-
side him, lost in brooding. Each man was gone in his own
thoughts.

** You know how the old German knights used to swear a
Blutbruderschajt,’’ he said to Gerald, with quite a new
happy activity in his eyes.

** Make a little wound in their arms, and rub each other’s
blood into the cut ?”’ said Gerald.

** Yes—and swear to be true to each other, of one blood,
all their lives. That is what we ought to do. No wounds,
that is obsolete. But we ought to swear to love each other,
you and I, implicitly, and perfectly, finally, without any
possibility of going back on it.”’

He looked at Gerald with clear, happy eyes of discovery.
Gerald looked down at him, attracted, so deeply bondaged
in fascinated attraction, that he was mistrustful, resenting
the bondage, hating the attraction.

** We will swear to each other, one day, shall we?”
pleaded Birkin. ‘* We will swear to stand by each other—
be true to each other—ultimately—infallibly—-given to each
other, organically—without possibility of taking back.”

Birkin sought hard to express himself. But Gerald hardly
listened. His face shone with a certain luminous pleasure.
He was pleased. But he kept his reserve. He held himself
back.

** Shall we swear to each other, one day?’ said Birkin, ©

putting out his hand towards Gerald.

Gerald just touched the extended fae, living hand, as if
withheld and afraid.

** We’ll leave it till I understand it better,”? he said, in a
voice of excuse.

Birkin watched him. A little sharp disappointment, per- |

haps a touch of contempt came into his heart.

MAN TO MAN 217

** Yes,’? he said. ‘* You must tell me what you think,
later. You know whatI mean? Not sloppy emotionalism.
_ An impersonal union that leaves one free.”’

They lapsed both into silence. Birkin was looking at
Gerald all the time. He seemed now to see, not the physi-
cal, animal man, which he usually saw in Gerald, and which
usually he liked so much, but the man himself, complete,
and as if fated, doomed, limited. This strange sense of
fatality in Gerald, as if he were limited to one form of exist-
ence, one knowledge, one activity, a sort of fatal halfness,
which to himself seemed wholeness, always overcame Birkin
after their moments of passionate approach, and filled him
with a sort of contempt, or boredom. It was the insistence
on the limitation which so bored Birkin in Gerald. Gerald
could never fly away from himself, in real indifferent gaiety.
He had a clog, a sort of monomania.

There was silence for a time. Then Birkin said, in a
lighter tone, letting the stress of the contact pass :

** Can’t you get a good governess for Winifred P—some-
body exceptional ?”’

** Hermione Roddice suggested we should ask Gudrun to
teach her to draw and to model in clay. You know Winnie
is astonishingly clever with that plasticine stuff. Hermione
declares she is an artist.”’ Gerald spoke in the usual ani-
mated, chatty manner, as if nothing unusual had passed.
But Birkin’s manner was full of reminder.

** Really! I didn’t know that. Oh well then, if Gudrun
would teach her, it would be perfect—couldn’t be anything
_ better—if Winifred is an artist. Because Gudrun some-
where isone. And every true artist is the salvation of every
other.”’

** I thought they got on so badly, as a rule.’’

_** Perhaps. But only artists produce for each other the
world that is fit to live in. If you can arrange that for
Winifred, it is perfect.’’

*¢ But you think she wouldn’t come ?”’

** 1 don’t know. Gudrun is rather self-opinionated. She
won’t go cheap anywhere. Or if she does, she’ll pretty soon
take herself back. So whether she would condescend to do
private teaching, particularly here, in Beldover, I don’t
know. But it would be just the thing. Winifred has got a
special nature. And if you can put into her way the means
of being self-sufficient, that is the best thing possible. She’ll

te? Set oe Peek) Ly a Mit coe ay oe = Ve) by Cae Me
1 Pu a pw , Ui ' PACT Te aah eS haken! il

218 WOMEN IN LOVE

never get on with the ordinary lifes You find it difficult

enough yourself, and she is several skins thinner than you
are. It is awful to think what her life will be like unless she
does find a means of expression, some way of fulfilment.
You can see what mere leaving it to fate brings. You can

see how much marriage is to be trusted to—look at your —

own mother.”’

** Do you think mother is abnormal ?’’

** No! Ithink she only wanted something more, or other
than the common run of life. And not getting it, she has
gone wrong perhaps.’’

** After producing a brood of wrong children,’’ said

Gerald gloomily.

** No more wrong than any of the rest of us,’’ Birkin re-
plied. ‘* The most normal people have the worst subter-
ranean selves, take them one by one.”’

** Sometimes I think it is a curse to be alive,”’’ said

Gerald, with sudden impotent anger.
** Well,’? said Birkin, *‘ why not! Let it be a curse

sometimes to be alive—at other times it is anything but a

eurse. You’ve got plenty of zest in it really.”’

‘** Less than you’d think,”’ said Gerald, revealing a strange
poverty in his look at the other man.

There was silence, each thinking his own thoughts.

** IT don’t see what she has to distinguish between teach-
ing at the Grammar School, and coming to teach Win,”’
said Gerald.

‘* The difference between a public servant and a private
one. The only nobleman to-day, king and only aristocrat,
is the public, the public. You are quite willing to serve
the public—but to be a private tutor— ”’

‘** IT don’t want to serve either— ”’

** No! And Gudrun will probably feel the same.’’

Gerald thought for a few minutes. Then he said :

** At all events, father won’t make her feel like a private
servant. He will be fussy and grateful enough.”’

** So he ought. And so ought all of you. Do you think
you can hire a woman like Gudrun Brangwen with money ?
She is your equal like anything—probably your superior.”’

** Ts she ?”’ said Gerald.

*‘ Yes, and if you haven’t the guts to know it, I hope
she’ll leave you to your own devices.”’

** Nevertheless,;”’ said Gerald, ‘* *f she is my equal, I wish

MAN TO MAN 219

she weren’t a teacher, because I don’t think teachers as a
rule are my equal.”’

** Nor do I, damn them. But am I a teacher because I
teach, or a parson because I preach ?”’

Gerald laughed. He was always uneasy on this score.
He did not want to claim social superiority, yet he would
not claim intrinsic personal superiority, because he would
never base his standard of values on pure being. So he
wobbled upon a tacit assumption of social standing. Now |
Birkin wanted him to accept the fact of intrinsic difference
between human beings, which he did not intend to accept.
It was against his social honour, his principle. He rose to
go.

** I’ve been neglecting my business all this while,’’ he said
smiling.

** IT ought to have reminded you before,’”’ Birkin replied,
laughing and mocking.

**I knew you’d say something like that,’? laughed
- Gerald, rather uneasily.

** Did you ?”’

** Yes, Rupert. It wouldn’t do for us all to be like you
are—we should soon be in the cart. When I am above the
world, I shall ignore all businesses.”’

** Of course, we’re not in the cart now,”’ said Birkin,
satirically.

** Not as much as you make out. At any rate, we have
enough to eat and drink— ”’

** And be satisfied,’’ added Birkin.

Gerald came near the bed and stood looking down at Bir-
kin whose throat was exposed, whose tossed hair fell attrac-
tively on the warm brow, above the eyes that were so un-
challenged and still in the satirical face. Gerald, full-
limbed and turgid with energy, stood unwilling to go, he
was held by the presence of the other man. He had not the
power to go away.

** So,’’ said Birkin. ‘* Good-bye.’’ And he reached out
his hand from under the bed-clothes, smiling with a glim-
mering look. |

** Good-bye,’’ said Gerald, taking the warm hand of his
friend in a firm grasp. “I shall come again. I miss you
down at the mill.’’

‘* T’ll be there in a few days,”’ said Birkin.

The eyes of the two men met again. Gerald’s, that were

“© Good-bye then. There’s ee I can do for on?
Pipeeres thanks.”

move out of the door, the bright. head was cane; he tu
over to sleep.

CHAP: XVII. THE INDUSTRIAL MAGNATE .

In Beldover, there was both for Ursula and for Gudrun an

interval. It seemed to Ursula as if Birkin had gone out of

her for the time, he had lost his significance, he scarcely
mattered in her world. She had her own friends, her own
activities, her own life. She turned back to the old ways
with zest, away from him.

And Gudrun, after feeling every moment in all her veins
conscious of Gerald Crich, connected even physically with
him, was now almost indifferent to the thought of him. She
was nursing new schemes for going away and trying a new
form of life. All the time, there was something in her urging
her to avoid the final establishing of a relationship with
Gerald. She felt it would be wiser and better to have no
more than a casual acquaintance with him.

She had a scheme for going to St. Petersburg, where she
had a friend who was a sculptor like herself, and who lived

with a wealthy Russian whose hobby was jewel-making.

The emotional, rather rootless life of the Russians appealed
to her. She did not want to go to Paris. Paris was dry,
and essentially boring. She would like to go to Rome,
Munich, Vienna, or to St. Petersburg or Moscow. She had
a friend in St. Petersburg and a friend in Munich. To each
of these she wrote, asking about rooms.

She had a certain amount of money. She had come home
partly to save, and now she had sold several pieces of work,
she had been praised in various shows. She knew she could
become quite the *‘ go ”’ if she went to London. But she

_ knew London, she wanted something else. She had seventy

pounds, of which nobody knew anything. She would move
soon, as soon as she heard from her friends. Her nature, in
spite of her apparent placidity and calm, was profoundly
restless.

The sisters happened to call in a cottage in Willey Green
to buy. honey. Mrs Kirk, a stout, pale, sharp-nosed woman,
sly, honied, with something shrewish and cat-like beneath,
asked the girls into her too-cosy, too tidy kitchen. There
was a cat-like comfort and cleanliness everywhere.

.** Yes, Miss Brangwen,”’ she said, in her slightly whining,
221

222 WOMEN IN LOVE
insinuating voice, ** and how do you like being back in the
old place, then ?”’

Gudrun, whom she addressed, hated her at once.

** I don’t care for it,’’ she replied abruptly.

** You don’t? Ay, well, I suppose you found a difference
from London. You like life, and big, grand places. Some
of us has to be content with Willey Green and Beldover.
And what do you think of our Grammar School, as there’s
so much talk about ?’’

** What do I think of it??? Gudrun looked round at her
slowly. ‘* Do you mean, do I think it’s a good school ?”?

** Yes. What is your opinion of it ?’’

** IT do think it’s a good school.’’

Gudrun was very cold and repelling. She knew the com-
mon people hated the school.

*“* Ay, you do, then! I’ve heard so much, one way and
the other. It’s nice to know what those that’s in it feel.
But opinions vary, don’t they? Mr Crich up at Highclose is
all for it. Ay, poor man, I’m afraid he’s not long for this
world. He’s very poorly.”’

** Is he worse ?”? asked Ursula. |

** Eh, yes—since they lost Miss Diana. He’s gone off to
a shadow. Poor man, he’s had a world of trouble.’’

** Has he?’’ asked Gudrun, faintly ironic.

** He has, a world of trouble. And as nice and kind a
gentleman as ever you could wish to meet. His children
don’t take after him.’’

** T suppose they take after their pica! ?*? said Ursula.

‘In many ways.”’ Mrs Kirk lowered her voice a little.
She was a proud haughty lady when she came into these
parts—my word, she was that! She mustn't be looked at,
and it was worth your life to speak to her.”? The woman
made a dry, sly face.

** Did you know her when she was first married?”

** Yes, I knew her. I nursed three of her children. And
proper little terrors they were, little fiends—that Gerald was
a demon if ever there was one, a proper demon, ay, at six
months old.’’ A curious malicious, sly tone came into the
woman’s voice.

** Really,’’ said Gudrun.

** That wilful, masterful—he’d mastered one nurse at six
months. Kick, and scream, and struggle like a demon.
Many’s the time I’ve pinched his little bottom for him,

THE INDUSTRIAL MAGNATE 223

whe he was a child in arms. Ay, and he’d have been
better if he’d had it pinched oftener. But she wouldn’t
have them corrected—no-o, wouldn’t hear of it. I can re-
member the rows she had with Mr Crich, my word. When
he’d got worked up, properly worked up till he could stand
no more, he’d lock the study door and whip them. But
she paced up and down all the while like a tiger outside, like
a tiger, with very murder in her face. She had a face that
could look death. And when the door was opened, she’d
go in with her hands lifted—* What have you been doing to
my children, you coward.’ She was like one out of her
mind. I believe he was frightened of her; he had to be
driven mad before he’d lift a finger. Didn’t the servants
have a life of it! And didn’t we used to be thankful when
one of them caught it. They were the torment of your
life.”’

** Really ! ’? said Gudrun.

** In every possible way. If you wouldn’t let them smash
their pots on the table, if you wouldn’t let them drag the
kitten about with a string round its neck, if you wouldn’t

give them whatever they asked for, every mortal thing—

then there was a shine on, and their mother coming in ask-
ing—* What’s the matter with him? What have you done
to him? What is it, Darling? ’ And then she’d turn on
you as if she’d trample you under her feet. But she didn’t
trample on me. I was the only one that could do anything
with her demons—for she wasn’t going to be bothered with
them herself. No, she took no trouble for them. But

_ they must just have their way, they mustn’t be spoken to.

And Master Gerald was the beauty. I left when he was a
year and a half, I could stand no more. But I pinched his

little bottom for him when he was in arms, I did, when there

was no holding him, and I’m not sorry I did—

Gudrun went away in fury and loathing. The phrase, ‘ I
pinched his little bottom for him,’ sent her into a white,
stony fury. She could not bear it, she wanted to have the
woman taken out at once and strangled. And yet there the
phrase was lodged in her mind for ever, beyond escape.
She felt, one day, she would have to tell him, to see how he
took it. And she loathed herself for the thought.

But at Shortlands the life-long struggle was coming to a
close. The father was ill and was going to die. He had
bad internal pains, which took away all his attentive life,

224 WOMEN IN LOVE
and left him with only a vestige of his consciousness. More
and more a silence came over him, he was less and less —
acutely aware of his surroundings. The pain seemed to
absorb his activity. He knew it was there, he knew it
would come again. It was like something lurking in the
darkness within him. And he had not the power, or the
will, to seek it out and to know it. There it remained in
the Harkiess: the great pain, tearing him at times, and then
being silent. And when it tore him he crouched in silent
subjection under it, and when it left him alone again, he re-
fused to know of it. It was within the darkness, let it re-
main unknown. So he never admitted it, except in a secret
corner of himself, where all his never-revealed fears and
secrets were accumulated. For the rest, he had a pain, it
went away, it made no difference. It even stimulated him,
excited him.

But it gradually absorbed his life. Gradually it drew
away all his potentiality, it bled him into the dark, it
weaned him of life and drew him away into the darkness.
And in this twilight of his life little remained visible to him.
The business, his work, that was gone entirely. His public
interests had disappeared as if they had never been. Even
his family had become extraneous to him, he could only re-
member, in some slight non-essential part of himself, that
such and such were his children. But it was historical fact,
not vital to him. He had to make an effort to know their
relation to him. Even his wife barely existed. She indeed
was like the darkness, like the pain within him. By some
strange association, the darkness that contained the pain
and the darkness that contained his wife were identical.
All his thoughts and understandings became blurred and
fused, and now his wife and the consuming pain were the
same dark-secret power against him, that he never faced.
He never drove the dread out of its lair within him. He
only knew that there was a dark place, and something in-
habiting this darkness which issued from time to time and
rent him. But he dared not penetrate and drive the beast
into the open. He had rather ignore its existence.’ Only,
in his vague way, the dread was his wife, the destroyer, and
it was the pain, the destruction, a darkness which was one
and both.

He very rarely saw his wife. She kept her room. Only
occasionally she came forth, with her head stretched for-

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Ws 2 .

THE INDUSTRIAL MAGNATE 225

ward, and in her low, possessed voice, she asked him how he

was. And he answered her, in the habit of more than thirty

years: ‘* Well, I don’t think I’m any the worse, dear.”
But he was frightened of her, underneath this safeguard of
habit, frightened almost to the verge of death.

But all his life, he had been so constant to his lights, he
had never broken down. He would die even now without —

_ breaking down, without knowing what his feelings were, to-

wards her. All his life, he had said: ‘* Poor Christiana,
she has such a strong temper.’? With unbroken will, he had
stood by this position with regard to her, he had substituted
pity for all his hostility, pity had been his shield and his
safeguard, and his infallible weapon. And still, in his con-
sciousness, he was sorry for her, her nature was so violent
and so impatient.

But now his pity, with his life, was wearing thin, and the
dread almost amounting to horror, was rising into being.
But before the armour of his pity really broke, he would die,
as an insect when its shell is cracked. This was his final
resource. Others would live on, and know the living death,
the ensuing process of hopeless chaos. He would not. He
denied death its victory.

He had been so constant to his lights, so constant to
charity, and to his love for his neighbour. Perhaps he had
loved his neighbour even better than himself—which is
going one further than the commandment. Always, this

flame had burned in his heart, sustaining him through every-

thing, the welfare of the people. He was a large employer
of labour, he was a great mine-owner. And he had never
lost this from his heart, that in Christ he was one with his
workmen. Nay, he had felt inferior to them, as if they
through poverty and labour were nearer to God than he.
He had always the unacknowledged belief, that it was his
workmen, the miners, who held in their hands the means of
salvation. 'To move nearer to God, he must move towards
his miners, his life must gravitate towards theirs. They
were, unconsciously, his idol, his God made manifest. In
them he worshipped the highest, the great, sympathetic,
mindless Godhead of humanity.

And all the while, his wife had opposed him like one of
the great demons of hel!. Strange, like a bird of prey, with
the fascinating beauty and abstraction of a hawk, she had
beat against the bars of his philanthropy, and like a hawk

P

226 WOMEN IN LOVE.
in a cage, she had sunk into silence. By force of cireum-—
stance, because all the world combined to make the cage >
unbreakable, he had been too strong for her, he had kept
her prisoner. And because she was his prisoner, his pas-
sion for her had always remained keen as death. He had
always loved her, loved her with intensity. Within the
cage, she was denied nothing, she was given all licence.

But she had gone almost mad. Of wild and overweening
temper, she could not bear the humiliation of her husband’s
soft, half-appealing kindness to everybody. He was not de-
ceived by the poor. He knew they came and sponged on
him, and whined to him, the worse sort; the majority,
luckily for him, were much too proud to ask for anything,
much too independent to come knocking at his door. But
in Beldover, as everywhere else, there\ were the whining,
parasitic, foul human beings who come crawling after
charity, and feeding on the living body of the public like
lice. A kind of fire would go over Christiana Crich’s brain,
as she saw two more pale-faced, creeping women in objec-
tionable black clothes, cringing lugubriously up the drive to
the door. She wanted to set the dogs on them, ‘* Hi Rip!
Hi Ring! Ranger! At ’em boys, set ’em off.” But
Crowther, the butler, with all the rest of the servants, was
Mr Crich’s man. Nevertheless, when her husband was
away, she would come down like a wolf on the crawling
supplicants : ‘* What do you people want? There is noth-
ing for you here. You have no business on the drive at all.
Simpson, drive them away and let no more of them through
the gate.’’

The servants had to obey her. And she would stand
watching with an eye like the eagle’s, whilst the groom in
clumsy confusion drove the lugubrious persons down the
drive, as if they were rusty fowls, scuttling before him.

But they learned to know, from the lodge-keeper, when
Mr Crich was away, and they timed their visits. How many
times, in the first years, would Crowther knock softly at the
door : ** Person to see you, sir.”

** What name ?”’

** Grocock, sir.’’

** What do they want??? The question was half im-
patient, half gratified. He liked hearing appeals to his
charity.

** About a child, sir.’’

ee ee eee

— ee eee ee

THE INDUSTRIAL MAGNATE 207

*‘ Show them into the library, and tell them they

shouldn’t come after eleven o’clock in the morning.”’

** Why do you get up from dinner?—send them off, ?? his
wife would say abruptly.

** Oh, I can’t do that. It’s no trouble just to hear what —
they have to say.”’

** How many more have been here to-day? Why don’t |
you establish open house for them? They would soon oust
me and the children.’’

** You know dear, it doesn’t hurt me to hear what they
have to say. And if they really are in trouble—vwell, it is
my duty to help them out of it.”

** It’s your duty to invite all the rats in the world to gnaw
at your bones.’

*° Come, Christiana, it isn’t like that. Don’t be uncharit-
able.”’

But she suddenly swept out of the room, and out to the
study. There sat the meagre charity-seekers, looking as if
they were at the doctor’s.

** Mr Crich can’t see you. He can’t see you at this hour.
Do you think he is your property, that you can come when-
ever you like? You must go away, there is nothing for you
here.”’

The poor people rose in confusion. But Mr Crich, pale’

and black-bearded and deprecating, came behind her,

saying :

** Yes, I don’t like you coming as late as this. I’ll hear
any of you in the morning part of the day, but I can’t really
do with you after. What’s amiss then, Gittens. How is
your Missis P”’

** Why, she’s sunk very low, Mester Crich, she’s a’most

gone, she is— ””

Sometimes, it seemed to Mrs Crich as if her husband were
some subtle funeral bird, feeding on the miseries of the
people. It seemed to her he was never satisfied unless there
was some sordid tale being poured out to him, which he
drank in with a sort of mournful, sympathetic satisfaction.
He would have no raison d’étre if there were no lugubrious
miseries in the world, as an undertaker would have no mean-
ing if there were no funerals.

Mrs Crich recoiled back upon herself, she recoiled away
from this world of creeping democracy. A band of tight,
baleful exclusion fastened round her heart, her isolation was

228 - WOMEN IN LOVE

fierce and hard, her antagonism was passive but terribly
pure, like that of a hawk in a cage. As the years went on,
she lost more and more count of the world, she seemed
rapt in some glittering abstraction, almost purely uncon-
scious. She would wander about the house and about the
surrounding country, staring keenly and seeing nothing.
She rarely spoke, she had no connection with the world.
And she did not even think. She was consumed in a fierce
tension of opposition, like the negative pole of a magnet.
And she bore many children. For, as time went on, she
never opposed her husband in word or deed. She took no
notice of him, externally. She submitted to him, let him
take what he wanted and do as he wanted with her. She
was like a hawk that sullenly submits to everything. The
relation between her and her husband was wordless and un-

known, but it was deep, awful, a relation of utter interde-

struction. And he, who triumphed in the world, he became
more and more hollow in his vitality, the vitality was bled
from within him, as by some hemorrhage. She was hulked

like a hawk in a cage, but her heart was fierce and un-

diminished within her, though her mind was destroyed.

So to the last he would go to her and hold her in his arms
sometimes, before his strength was all gone. The terrible
white, destructive light that burned in her eyes only excited
and roused him. Till he was bled to death, and then he
dreaded her more than anything. But he always said to
himself, how happy he had been, how he had loved her
with a pure and consuming love ever since he had known
her. And he thought of her as pure, chaste; the white
flame which was known to him alone, the flame of her sex,
was a white flower of snow to his mind. She was a won-
derful white snow-flower, which he had desired infinitely.
And now he was dying with all his ideas and interpretations
intact. They would only collapse when the breath left his
body. ‘Till then they would be pure truths for him. Only
death would show the perfect completeness of the lie. Till
death, she was his white snow-flower. He had subdued her,
and her subjugation was to him an infinite chastity in her, a
virginity which he could never break, and which dominated
him as by a spell.

She had let go the outer world, but within herself she was
unbroken and unimpaired. She only sat in her room like a
moping, dishevelled hawk, motionless, mindless. Her chil-

~

THE INDUSTRIAL MAGNATE | 229

- dren, for whom she had been so fierce in her youth, now
meant scarcely anything to her. She had lost all that, she
was quite by herself. Only Gerald, the gleaming, had some
existence for her. But of late years, since he had become
head of the business, he too was forgotten. Whereas the
father, now he was dying, turned for compassion to Gerald.
There had always been opposition between the two of them.
Gerald had feared and despised his father, and to a great
extent had avoided him all through boyhood and young
manhood. And the father had felt very often a real dislike
of his eldest son, which, never wanting to give way to, he
had refused to acknowledge. He had ignored Gerald as
much as possible, leaving him alone.

Since, however, Gerald had come home and assumed re-
sponsibility in the firm, and had proved such a wonderful
director, the father, tired and weary of all outside concerns,
had put all his trust of these things in his son, implicitly,
leaving everything to him, and assuming a rather touching
dependence on the young enemy. This immediately roused
a poignant pity and allegiance in Gerald’s heart, always
shadowed by contempt and by unadmitted enmity. For
_ Gerald was in reaction against Charity; and yet he was
dominated by it, it assumed supremacy in the inner life, and
he could not confute it. So he was partly subject to that
which his father stood for, but he was in reaction against it.
Now he could not save himself. A certain pity and grief
and tenderness for his father overcame him, in spite of the
deeper, more sullen hostility.

The father won shelter from Gerald through compassion.
But for love he had Winifred. She was his youngest child,
she was the only one of his children whom he had ever
closely loved. And her he loved with all the great, over-
weening, sheltering love of a dying man. He wanted to
shelter her infinitely, infinitely, to wrap her in warmth and
love and shelter, perfectly. If he could save her she should
never know one pain, one grief, one hurt. He had been so
right all his life, so constant in his kindness and his good-
ness. And this was his last passionate righteousness, his
love for the child Winifred. Some things troubled him yet.
The world had passed away from him, as his strength ebbed.
There were no more poor and injured and humble to protect
and succour. These were all lost to him. There were no
more sons and daughters to trouble him, and to weigh on

mei? se ats pate tihr 2 ae Ns reat uke - Mr. bes h ION oe: AY PES
el iyi i cuatae - . ; he : we

230. “WOMEN IN LOVE

him as an unnatural responsibility. These too had faded ni

out of reality. All these things had fallen out of his hands, ~

and left him free.

There remained the covert fear and horror of his wie:
as she sat mindless and strange in her room, or as she came
forth with siow, prowling step, her head bent forward. But
this he put away. Even his life-long righteousness, how-
ever, would not quite deliver him from the inner horror.

Still, he could keep it sufficiently at bay. It would never

break forth openly. Death would come first.

Then there was Winifred! If only he could be sure about
her, if only he could be sure. Since the death of Diana, and
the development of his illness, his craving for surety with
regard to Winifred amounted almost to obsession. It was
as if, even dying, he must have some anxiety, some respon-
sibility of love, of Charity, upon his heart.

She was an odd, sensitive, inflammable child, having her

father’s dark hair and quiet bearing, but being quite de- —

tached, momentaneous. She was like a changeling indeed,
as if her feelings did not matter to her, really. She often
seemed to be talking and playing like the gayest and most
childish of children, she was full of the warmest, most de-
lightful affection for a few things—for her father, and for
her animals in particular. But if she heard that her beloved
kitten Leo had been run over by the motor-car she put her
head on one side, and replied, with a faint contraction like
resentment on her face: ** Has he??? Then she took no
more notice. She only disliked the servant who would force
bad news on her, and wanted her to be sorry. She wished
' not to know, and that seemed her chief motive. She
avoided her mother, and most of the members of her family.
She loved her Daddy, because he wanted her always to be
happy, and because he seemed to become young again, and
irresponsible in her presence. She liked Gerald, because he
was so self-contained. She loved people who would make
life a game for her. She had an amazing instinctive critical
faculty, and was a pure anarchist, a pure aristocrat at once.
For she accepted her equals wherever she found them, and
she ignored with blithe indifference her inferiors, whether
they were her brothers and sisters, or whether they were
wealthy guests of the house, or whether they were the com-
mon people or the servants. She was quite single and by
herself, deriving from nobody. It was as if she were cut

oe u,b. as 7 ~ Uy eee) 4
°

ss PE INDUSTRIAL MAGNATE 231

off from all purpose or continuity, and existed simply
. moment by moment.

The father, as by some strange final illusion, felt as if all
his fate depended on his ensuring to Winifred her happiness.
She who could never suffer, because she never formed vital
connections, she who could lose the dearest things of her life
and be just the same the next day, the wholememory dropped
out, as if deliberately, she whose will was so strangely and

easily free, anarchistic, almost nihilistic, who like a soulless
pird flits on its own will, without attachment or responsi-
bility beyond the moment, who in her every motion snapped
the threads of serious relationship with blithe, free hands,
really nihilistic, because never troubled, she must be the
object of her father’s final passionate solicitude.

When Mr Crich heard that Gudrun Brangwen might come
to help Winifred with her drawing and modelling he saw a
road to salvation for his child. He believed that Winifred
had talent, he had seen Gudrun, he knew that she was an
exceptional person. He could give Winifred into her hands
as into the hands of a right being. Here was a direction
and a positive force to be lent to his child, he need not leave
her directionless and defenceless. If he could but graft the
girl on to some tree of utterance before he died, he would
have fulfilled his responsibility. And here it could be done.
He did not hesitate to appeal to Gudrun.

Meanwhile, as the father drifted more and more out of
life, Gerald experienced more and more a sense of exposure.
His father after all had stood for the living world to him.
Whilst his father lived Gerald was not responsible for the
world. But now his father was passing away, Gerald found
himself left exposed and unready before the storm of living,
like the mutinous first mate of a ship that has lost his cap-
tain, and who sees only a terrible chaos in front of him. He
did not inherit an established order and a living idea. The
whole unifying idea of mankind seemed to be dying with his
father, the centralising force that had held the whole to-
gether seemed to collapse with his father, the parts were
ready to go asunder in terrible disintegration. Gerald was
as if left on board of a ship that was going asunder beneath
his feet, he was in charge of a vessel whose timbers were all
coming apart. — .

He knew that all his life he had been wrenching at the
frame of life to break it apart, And now, with something of

or

232 WOMEN IN LOVE ©

the terror of a destructive child, he saw himself on the point —
' of inheriting his own destruction. And during the last
months, under the influence of death, and of Birkin’s talk,
and of Gudrun’s penetrating being, he had lost entirely that
mechanical certainty that had been his triumph. Some-
times spasms of hatred came over him, against Birkin and
Gudrun and that whole set. He wanted to go back to the
dullest conservatism, to the most stupid of conventional
people. He wanted to revert to the strictest Toryism. But
the desire did not last long enough to carry him into action.

During his childhood and his boyhood he had wanted a
sort of savagedom. The days of Homer were his ideal,
when a man was chief of an army of heroes, or spent his
years in wonderful Odyssey. He hated remorselessly the °
circumstances of his own life, so much that he never really
saw Beldover and the colliery valley. He turned his face
entirely away from the blackened mining region that
stretched away on the right hand of Shortlands, he turned
entirely to the country and the woods beyond Willey Water.
It was true that the panting and rattling of the coal mines
could always be heard at Shortlands. But from his earliest:
childhood, Gerald had paid no heed to this. He had ignored
' the whole of the industrial sea which surged in coal-
blackened tides against the grounds of the house. The
world was really a wilderness where one hunted and swam
and rode. He rebelled against all authority. Life was a
condition of savage, freedom.

Then he had been sent away to school, which was so much
_ death to him. He refused to go to Oxford, choosing a
German university. He had spent a certain time at Bonn,
at Berlin, and at Frankfurt. There, a curiosity had been
aroused in his mind. He wanted to see and to know, in a
curious objective fashion, as if it were an amusement to him.
Then he must try war. Then he must travel into the savage ©
regions that had so attracted him.

The result was, he found humanity very much alike
everywhere, and to a mind like his, curious and cold, the
savage was duller, less exciting than the European. So he
took hold of all kinds of sociological ideas, and ideas of re-
form. But they never went more than skin-deep, they were
never more than a mental amusement. Their interest lay
chiefly in the reaction against the positive order, the destruc-
tive reaction,

CS —

THE INDUSTRIAL MAGNATE 238

He discovered at last a real adventure in the coal-mines.
His father asked him to help in the firm. Gerald had been
educated in the science of mining, and it had never inter-
ested him. Now, suddenly, with a sort of exultation, he

laid hold of the world.

There was impressed photographically on his conscious-
ness the great industry. Suddenly, it was real, he was part
of it. Down the valley ran the colliery railway, linking
mine with mine. Down the railway ran the trains, short
trains of heavily laden trucks, long trains of empty wagons,
each one bearing in big white letters the initials :

a" C. B.& Co.”

These white letters on all the wagons he had seen since his
first childhood, and it was as if he had never seen them,
they were so familiar, and so ignored. Now at last he saw
his own name written on the wall. Now he had a vision of
power.

So many wagons, bearing his initial, running all over the
country. He saw them as he entered London in the train,
he saw them at Dover. So far his power ramified. He
looked at Beldover, at Selby, at Whatmore, at Lethley
Bank, the great colliery villages which depended entirely on
his mines. They were hideous and sordid, during his
childhood they had been sores in his consciousness. And
now he saw them with pride. Four raw new towns, and
many ugly industrial hamlets were crowded under his depen-
dence. He saw the stream of miners flowing along the
causeways from the mines at the end of the afternoon,
thousands of blackened, slightly distorted human beings
with red mouths, all moving subjugate to his will. He
pushed slowly in his motor-car through the little market-top
on Friday nights in Beldover, through a solid mass of.
human beings that were making their purchases and doing
their weekly spending. They were all subordinate to him.
They were ugly and uncouth, but they were his instruments.
He was the God of the machine. They made way for his
motor-car automatically, slowly.

He did not care whether they made way with alacrity,
or grudgingly. He did not care what they thought of him.
His vision had suddenly crystallised. Suddenly he had
conceived the pure instrumentality of mankind. There had
been so much humanitarianism, so much talk of sufferings |
and feelmgs. It was ridiculous. The sufferings and feelings

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234 WOMEN IN LOVE
of individuals did not matter in the least. They were mere
conditions, like the weather. What mattered was the pure
instrumentality of the individual. » As a man as of a knife:
does it cut well? Nothing else mattered.

Everything in the world has its function, and is good or
not good in so far as it fulfils this function more or less per-.
fectly. Was a miner a good miner? Then he was com-
plete. Was a manager a good manager? That was
enough. Gerald himself, who was responsible for all this
industry, was he a good director? If he were, he had ful-
filled his life. The rest was by-play.

The mines were there, they were old. They were giving
out, it did not pay to work the seams. There was talk of
closing down two of them. It was at this point that Gerald
arrived on the scene.

He looked around. There lay the mines. They were old,
obsolete. They were like old lions, no more good. He
looked again. Pah! the mines were nothing but the clumsy
efforts of in:spure minds. There they lay, abortions of a
half-trained mind. Let the idea of them be swept away. |
He cleared his brain of them, and thought only of the coal
in the under earth. How much was there ?

There was plenty of coal. The old workings could not
get at it, that was all. Then break the neck of the old
workings. The coal lay there in its seams, even though the
seams were thin. ‘There it lay, inert matter, as it had
always lain, since the beginning of time, subject to the will
of man. The will of man was the determining factor.
Man was the arch-god of earth. His mind was obedient to
serve his will. Man’s will was the absolute, the only
absolute.

And it was his will to subjugate Matter to his own ends.
The subjugation itself was the point, the fight was the be-
all, the fruits of victory were mere results. It was not for
the sake of money that Gerald took over the mines. He did
not care about money, fundamentally. He was neither
ostentatious nor luxurious, neither did he care about social
position, not finally. What he wanted was the pure fulfil-
ment of his own will in the struggle with the natural condi-
tions. His will was now, to take the coal out of the earth,
profitably. The profit was merely the condition of victory,
but the victory itself lay in the feat achieved. He vibrated
with zest before the challenge. Every day he was in the

——————

3 THE INDUSTRIAL MAGNATE 235

mines, examining, testing, he consulted experts, he
gradually gathered the whole situation into his mind, as a
general grasps the plan of his campaign.

Then there was need for a complete break. The mines
were run on an old system, an obsolete idea. The initial

_ idea had been, to obtain as much money from the earth as

would make the owners comfortably rich, would allow the
workmen sufficient wages and good conditions, and would
increase the wealth of the country altogether. Gerald’s

father, following in the second generation, having a suffi-
cient fortune, had thought only of the men. The mines,

for him, were primarily great fields to produce bread and
plenty for all the hundreds of human beings gathered about
them. He had lived and striven with his fellow owners to

_ benefit the men every time. And the men had been bene-

fited in their fashion. There were few poor, and few needy.
All was plenty, because the mines were good and easy to
work. And the miners, in those days, finding themselves
richer than they might have expected, felt glad and trium-
phant. They thought themselves well-off, they congratu-
lated themselves on their good-fortune, they remembered
how their fathers had starved and suffered, and they felt
that better times had come. They were grateful to those
others, the pioneers, the new owners, who had opened out
the pits, and let forth this stream of plenty.

But man is never satisfied, and so the miners, from grati-
tude to their owners, passed on to murmuring. Their
sufficiency decreased with knowledge, they wanted more.
Why should the master be.so out-of-all-proportion rich ?

There was a crisis when: Gerald was a boy, when the
Masters’ Federation closed down the mines because the men
would not accept a reduction. This lock-out had forced
home the new conditions to Thomas Crich. Belonging to
the Federation, he had been compelled by his honour to
close the pits against his men. He, the father, the
Patriarch, was forced to deny the means of life to his sons,
his people. He, the rich man who would hardly enter
heaven because of his possessions, must now turn upon the
poor, upon those who were nearer Christ than himself, those
who were humble and despised and closer to perfection, °
those who were manly and noble in their labours, and must
say to them: ** Ye shall neither labour nor eat bread.’’

It was this recognition of the state of war which really

a Laity. a i et Be er, ny } ’
’ PERN, 8 RSE VG NCS Se

~-

236 WOMEN IN LOVE |

broke his heart. He wanted his industry to be run on love.
Oh, he wanted love to be the directing power even of the
mines. And now, from under the cloak of love, the sword
was cynically drawn, the sword of mechanical necessity.

This really broke his heart. He must have the illusion
and now the illusion was destroyed. The men were not
against him, but they were against the masters. It was
war, and willy nilly he found himself on the wrong side, in
his own conscience. Seething masses of miners met daily,
carried away by a new religious impulse. The idea flew
through them: ** All men are equal on earth,”’ and they
would carry the idea to its material fulfilment. After all, is
it not the teaching of Christ? And what is an idea, if not
the germ of action in the material world. ‘* All men are
equal in spirit, they are all sons of God. Whence then this
obvious disquality?’’ It was a religious creed pushed to its
material conclusion. Thomas Crich at least had no answer.
He could but admit, according to his sincere tenets, that
the disquality was wrong. But he could not give up his
goods, which were the stuff of disquality. So the men would
fight for their rights. The last impulses of the last religious
passion left on earth, the passion for equality, inspired
them.

Seething mobs of men marched about, their faces lighted
up as for holy war, with a smoke of cupidity. How dis-
entangle the passion for equality from the passion of
cupidity, when begins the fight for equality of possessions ?
But the God was the machine. Each man claimed equality
in the Godhead of the great productive machine. Every
man equally was part of this Godhead. But somehow,
somewhere, Thomas Crich knew this was false. When the
machine is the Godhead, and production or work is wor-
ship, then the most mechanical mind is purest and highest,
the representative of God on earth. And the rest are sub-
ordinate, each according to his degree.

Riots broke out, Whatmore pit-head was in flames. This
was the pit furthest in the country, near the woods. Sol-
diers came. From the windows of Shortlands, on that fatal
day, could be seen the flare of fire in the sky not far off,
and now the little colliery train, with the workmen’s car-
riages which were used to convey the miners to the distant —
Whatmore, was crossing the valley full of soldiers, full of
red-coats. Then there was the far-off sound of firing, then

THE INDUSTRIAL MAGNATE 237

the later news that the mob was dispersed, one man was
shot dead, the fire was put out.

Gerald, who was a boy, was filled with the wildest excite-
ment and delight. He longed to go with the soldiers to
shoot the men. But he was not allowed to go out of the
lodge gates. At the gates were stationed sentries with guns.
Gerald stood near them in delight, whilst gangs of derisive
miners strolled up and down the lanes, calling and jeering :

** Now then, three ha’porth o’ coppers, let’s see thee shoot
thy gun.’’ Insults were chalked on the walls and the fences,
the servants left.

And all this while Thomas Crich was breaking his heart,
and giving away hundreds of pounds in charity. Every-
where there was free food, a surfeit of free food. Anybody
could have bread for asking, and a loaf cost only three-
ha’pence. Every day there was a free tea somewhere, the
children had never had so many treats in their lives. On
Friday afternoon great basketfuls of buns and cakes were
taken into the schools, and great pitchers of milk, the school-
children had what they wanted. They were sick with eat-
ing too much cake and milk.

And then it came to an end, and the men went back to
work. But it was never the same as before. There was a
new situation created, a new idea reigned. Even in the
machine, there should be equality. No part should be sub-
ordinate to any other part: all should be equal. The
instinct for chaos had entered. Mystic equality lies in
abstraction, not in having or in doing, which are processes.
In function and process, one man, one part, must of neces-
sity be subordinate to another. It is a condition of being.
But the desire for chaos had risen, and the idea of
mechanical equality was the weapon of disruption which
should execute the will of man, the will for chaos.

Gerald was a boy at the time of the strike, but he longed
to be a man, to fight the colliers. The father however was
trapped between two half-truths, and broken. He wanted
to be a pure Christian, one and equal with all men. He
even wanted to give away all he had, to the poor. Yet
he was a great promoter of industry, and he knew perfectly
that he must keep his goods and keep his authority. This
was as divine a necessity in him, as the need to give away
all he possessed—more divine, even, since this was the
necessity he acted upon. Yet because he did not act on the

238 WOMEN IN LOVE

other ideal, it dominated him, he was dying of chagrin be- —
cause he must forfeit it. He wanted to be a father of loving ©
kindness and sacrificial benevolence. The colliers shouted
to him about his thousands a year. They would not be
deceived.

When Gerald grew up in the ways of the world, he shifted
the position. He did not care about the equality. The
whole Christian attitude of love and self-sacrifice was old
hat. He knew that position and authority were the right
thing in the world, and it was useless to cant about it.
They were the right thing, for the simple reason that they
were functionally necessary. They were not the be-all and
the end-all. It was like being part of a machine. He him-
self happened to be a controlling, central part, the masses
of men were the parts variously controlled. This was
merely as it happened. As well get excited because a cen-
tral hub drives a hundred outer wheels—or because the
whole universe wheels round the sun. After all, it would
be mere silliness to say that the moon and the earth and
Saturn and Jupiter and Venus have just as much right to be
the centre of the universe, each of them separately, as the
sun. Such an assertion is made merely in the desire of
chaos.

Without bothering to think to a conclusion, Gerald
jumped to a conclusion. He abandoned the whole demo--
cratic-equality problem as a problem of silliness. What
mattered was the great social productive machine. Let that
work perfectly, let it produce a sufficiency of everything, let
every man be given a rational portion, greater or less accord-
ing to his functional degree or magnitude, and then, pro-
vision made, let the devil supervene, let every man look
after his own amusements and appetites, so long:as he inter-
fered with nobody.

So Gerald set himself to work, to put the great industry
in order. In his travels, and i in his accompanying readings,
he had come to the conclusion that the essential secret of life
was harmony. He did not define to himself at all clearly
what harmony was. The word pleased him, he felt he had
come to his own conclusions. And he proceeded to put his
_ philosophy into practice by forcing order into the established
world, translating the mystic word harmony into the prac-
tical word organisation.

Immediately he saw the firm, he realised what he could

THE INDUSTRIAL MAGNATE 239

do. He had a fight to fight with Matter, with the earth and
the coal it enclosed. This was the sole idea, to turn upon
the inanimate matter of the underground, and reduce it to
his will. And for this fight with matter, one must have
perfect instruments in perfect organisation, a mechanism so
subtle and harmonious in its workings that it represents the
single mind of man, and by its relentless repetition of given
movement, will accomplish a purpose irresistibly, in-
humanly. It was this inhuman principle in the mechanism
he wanted to construct that inspired Gerald with an almost
religious exaltation. He, the man, could interpose a per-
fect, changeless, godlike medium between himself and the
Matter he had to subjugate. There were two opposites, his
will and the resistent Matter of the earth. And between
these he could establish the very expression of his will, the
incarnation of his power, a great and perfect machine, a
system, an activity of pure order, pure mechanical repeti-
tion, repetition ad infinitum, hence eternal and _ infinite.
He found his eternal and his infinite in the pure machine-
principle of perfect co-ordination into one puze, complex,
infinitely repeated motion, like the spinning of a wheel; but
a productive spinning, as the revolving of the universe may
be called a productive spinning, a productive repetition
through eternity, to infinity. And this is the God-motion,
this productive repetition ad infinitum. And Gerald was
the God of the machine, Deus ex Machina. And the whole
productive will of man was the Godhead.

He had his life-work now, to extend over the earth a great ©
and perfect system in which the will of man ran smooth and
unthwarted, timeless, a Godhead in process. He had to
begin with the mines. The terms were given : first the re-
sistant Matter of the underground ; then the instruments of
its subjugation, instruments human and metallic; and fin-
ally his own pure will, his own mind. It would need a
marvellous adjustment of myriad instruments, human,
animal, metallic, kinetic, dynamic, a marvellous casting of
myriad tiny wholes into one great perfect entirety. And
then, in this case there was perfection attained, the will of
the highest was perfectly fulfilled, the will of mankind was
perfectly enacted; for was not mankind mystically contra-
distinguished against inanimate Matter, was not the history
of mankind just the history of the eeritest of the one by
the other?

240 WOMEN IN LOVE

The miners were overreached. While they were still in
the toils of divine equality of man, Gerald had passed on,
granted essentially their case, and proceeded in his quality
of human being to fulfil the will of mankind as a whole. He
merely represented the miners in a higher sense when he per-
ceived that the only way to fulfil perfectly the will of man
was to establish the perfect, inhuman machine. But he re-
presented them very essentially, they were far behind, out
of date, squabbling for their material equality. The desire
had already transmuted into this new and greater desire, for
a perfect intervening mechanism between man and Matter,
the desire to translate the Godhead into pure mechanism.

As soon as Gerald entered the firm, the convulsion of
death ran through the old system. He had all his life been
tortured by a furious and destructive demon, which pos-
sessed him sometimes like an insanity. This temper now
entered like a virus into the firm, and there were cruel erup- _
tions. Terrible and inhuman were his examinations into
every detail; there was no privacy he would spare, no old
sentiment but he would turn it over. The old grey mana-
gers, the old grey clerks, the doddering old pensioners, he
looked at them, and removed them as so much lumber. The
whole concern seemed like a hospital of invalid employees.
He had no emotional qualms. He arranged what pensions
were necessary, he looked for efficient substitutes, and when
these were found, he substituted them for the old hands.

** I’ve a pitiful letter here from Letherington,”’ his father
would say, in a tone of deprecation and appeal. ‘* Don’t
you think the poor fellow might keep on a little longer. I
always fancied he did very well.’’

** T’ve got a man in his place now, father. He’ll be
happier out of it, believe me. You think his allowance is
plenty, don’t you ?”’

** It is not the allowance that he wants, poorman. He
feels it very much, that he is superannuated. Says he
thought he had twenty more years of work in him

a

** Not of this kind of work I want. He doesn’t under-
stand.’

The father sighed. He wanted not to know any more.
He believed the pits would have to be overhauled if they
were to go on working. And after all, it would be worst
in the long run for everybody, if they must close down. So

Pim eS

———————

THE INDUSTRIAL MAGNATE. 241

‘he could make no answer to the appeals of his old and trusty

servants, he could only repeat °** Gerald says.’

So the father drew more and more out of the light. The
whole frame of the real life was broken for him. He had
been right according to his lights. And his lights had been
those of the great religion. Yet they seemed to have be-
come obsolete, to be superseded in the world. He could
not understand. He only withdrew with his lights into an
inner room, into the silence. The beautiful candles of belief,
that would not do to light the world any more, they would
still burn sweetly and sufficiently in the inner room of his
soul, and in the silence of his retirement.

Gerald rushed into the reform of the firm, beginning with
the office. It was needful to economise severely, to make
possible the great alterations he must introduce.

** What are these widows’ coals ?”? he asked.

** We have always allowed all widows of men who worked
for the firm a load of coals every three months.”’

** They must pay cost price henceforward. The firm is
not a charity institution, as everybody seems to think.”’

Widows, these stock figures of sentimental humanitarian-
ism, he felt a dislike at the thought of them. They were °
almost repulsive. Why were they not immolated on the
pyre of the husband, like the sati in India? At any rate,
let them pay the cost of their coals.

In a thousand ways he cut down the expenditure, in ways
so fine as to be hardly noticeable to the men. The miners
must pay for the cartage of their coals, heavy cartage too; -
they must pay for their tools, for the sharpening, for the
care of lamps, for the many trifling things that made the
bill of charges against every man mount up to a shilling
or so in the week. It was not grasped very definitely by

_ the miners, though they were sore enough. But it saved

hundreds of pounds every week for the firm.

Gradually Gerald got hold of everything. And then be-
gan the great reform. Expert engineers were introduced in
every department. An enormous electric plant was instal-
led, both for lighting and for haulage underground, and for
power. The electricity was carried into every mine. New
machinery was brought from America, such as the miners

* had never seen before, great iron men, as the cutting

machines were called, and unusual appliances. The work-
ing of the pits was thoroughly changed, all the control was
“4

249 WOMEN IN LOVE

taken out of the hands of the miners, the butty system was ‘

abolished. Everything was run on the most accurate and
delicate scientific method, educated and éxpert men were in
control everywhere, the miners were reduced to mere
mechanical instruments. They had to work hard, much
harder than before, the work was terrible and heart-breaking
in its mechanicalness.

But they submitted to it all. The joy went out of their

lives, the hope seemed to perish as they became more and —

more mechanised. And yet they accepted the new condi-
tions. They even got a further satisfaction out of them.
At first they hated Gerald Crich, they swore to do something
to him, to murder him. But as time went on, they accepted
everything with some fatal satisfaction. Gerald was their
high priest, he represented the religion they really felt. His
father was forgotten already. There was a new world, a
new order, strict, terrible, inhuman, but satisfying in its
very destructiveness. The men were satisfied to belong to
the great and wonderful machine, even whilst it destroyed
them. It was what they wanted. It was the highest that
man had produced, the most wonderful and superhuman.
They were exalted by belonging to this great and super-
human system which was beyond feeling or reason, some-
thing really godlike. Their hearts died within them, but
their souls were satisfied. It was what they wanted.
Otherwise Gerald could never have done what he did. He
was just ahead of them in giving them what they wanted,
this participation in a great and perfect system that sub-
jected life to pure mathematical principles. This was a sort
of freedom, the sort they really wanted. It was the first
great step in undoing, the first great phase of chaos, the
substitution of the mechanical principle for the organic, the
destruction of the organic purpose, the organic unity, and
the subordination of every organic unit to the great mechani-

cal purpose. It was pure organic disintegration and pure —

mechanical organisation. This is the first and finest state
of chaos.

Gerald was satisfied. He knew the colliers said they
hated him. But he had long ceased to hate them. When
they streamed past him at evening, their heavy boots slur-

ring on the pavement wearily, their shoulders slightly dis- —

torted, they took no notice of him, they gave him no greet-
ing whatever, they passed in a grey-black stream of unemo-

ee

Pes) aime: Wale. te he ee a A eS Oe a, 4 PE ag ea Me G3) HN = OY Pa bod ge a ee
ST A DBRS IR Sen AAAS VASAT at ANE arta ia Men i OTA 2 el PON dy
OP oh eR th ate pT ey) ry ORE MPR LMT ~ ph eae Na). y ere

yey H

THE INDUSTRIAL MAGNATE 243

tional acceptance. They were not important to him, save
as instruments, nor he to them, save as a supreme instru-
ment of control. As miners they had their being, he had his
being as director. He admired their qualities. But as
men, personalities, they were just accidents, sporadic little
unimportant phenomena. And tacitly, the men agreed to
this. For Gerald agreed to it in himself.

He had succeeded. He had converted the industry into
a new and terrible purity. There was a greater output of
coal than ever, the wonderful and delicate system. ran
almost perfectly. He had a set of really clever engineers,
both mining and electrical, and they did not cost much.
A highly educated man cost very little more than a work-
man. His managers, who were all rare men, were no more
expensive than the old bungling fools of his father’s days,
who were merely colliers promoted. His chief manager,
who had twelve hundred a year, saved the firm at least five
thousand. The whole system was now so perfect that
Gerald was hardly necessary any more.

It was so perfect that sometimes a strange fear came over
him, and he did not know what to do. He went on for
some years in a sort of trance of activity. What he was
doing seemed supreme, he was almost like a divinity. He
was a pure and exalted activity.

But now he had succeeded—he had finally succeeded.
And once or twice lately, when he was alone in the evening
and had nothing to do, he had suddenly stood up in terror,
not knowing what he was. And he went to the mirror and
looked long and closely at his own face, at his own eyes,
seeking for something. He was afraid, in mortal dry fear,
but he knew not what of. He looked at his own face. There
it was, shapely and healthy and the same as ever, yet some-
how, it was not real, it was a mask. He dared not touch
it, for fear it should prove to be only a composition mask.
_ His eyes were blue and keen as ever, and as firm in their
sockets. Yet he was not sure that they were not blue false
bubbles that would burst in a moment and leave clear anni-
hilation. He could see the darkness in them, as if they were
only bubbles of darkness. He was afraid that one day he
would break down and be a purely meaningless babble lap-
ping round a darkness.

But his will yet held good, he was able to go away and
read, and think about things. He liked to read books about

obit ve er: 2 TO ee ley a SS bt tS Freee
CAN CR aa I
CAFS eye ts wy aimee

244 WOMEN IN LOVE .

the primitive man, books of anthropology, and also works of

speculative philosophy. His mind was very active. But it —

was‘like a bubble floating in the darkness. At any moment
it might burst and leave him in chaos. He would not die.
He knew that. He would go on living, but the meaning
would have collapsed out of him, his divine reason would be
gone. In a strangely indifferent, sterile way, he was
frightened. But he could not react even to the fear. It
was as if his centres of feeling were drying up. He re-
mained calm, calculative and healthy, and quite freely de-
liberate, even whilst he felt, with faint, small but final
sterile horrer, that his mystic reason was breaking, giving
way now, at this crisis.

And it was a strain. He knew there was no equilibrium.
He would have to go in some direction, shortly, to find relief.
Only Birkin kept the fear definitely off him, saved him his
quick sufficiency in life, by the odd mobility and change-
ableness which seemed to contain the quintessence of faith.
But then Gerald must always come away from Birkin, as
from a Church service, back to the outside real world of
work and life. There it was, it did not alter, and words
were futilities. He had to keep himself in reckoning with
the world of work and material life. And it became more
and more difficult, such a strange pressure was upon him,
as if the very middle of him were a vacuum, and outside
were an awful tension.

He had found his most satisfactory relief in women. After
a debauch with some desperate woman, he went on quite
easy and forgetful. The devil of it was, it was so hard to keep.
up his interest in women nowadays. He didn’t care about
them any more. A Pussum was all right in her way, but
she was an exceptional case, and even she mattered ex-
tremely little. No, women, in that sense, were useless to
him any more. He felt that his mind needed acute stimu-
lation, before he could be physically roused.

CHAP: XVIII. RABBIT

GuDRUN knew that it was a critical thing for her to go to
Shortlands. She. knew it was equivalent to accepting
Gerald Crich as a lover. And though she hung back, dis-
liking the condition, yet she knew she would go on. She
equivocated. She said to herself, in torment recalling the
blow and the kiss, ** after all, what is it? What is a kiss?
What even is a blow? It is an instant, vanished at once.
I can go to Shortlands just for a time, before I go away, if
only to see what it is like.’”? For she had an insatiable
curiosity to see and to know everything.

She also wanted to know what Winifred was really like.
Having heard the child calling from the steamer in the night,
she felt some mysterious connection with her.

Gudrun talked with the father in the library. Then he
sent for his daughter. She came accompanied by
Mademoiselle.

** Winnie, this is Miss Brangwen, who will be so kind as to
help you with your drawing and making models of your
animals,’’ said the father.

The child looked at Gudrun for a moment with interest,
before she came forward and with face averted offered her
hand. There was a complete sang froid and indifference
under Winifred’s childish reserve, a certain irresponsible
callousness.

** How do you do?”’ said the child, not lifting her face.

** How do you do?” said Gudrun.

Then Winifred stood aside, and Gudrun was introduced
to Mademoiselle.

** You have a fine day for your walk,’’ said Mademoiselle,
in a bright manner. —

** Quite fine,’’ said Gudrun.

Winifred was watching from her distance. She was as if
amused, but rather unsure as yet what this new person was
like. She saw so many new persons, and so few who became
real to her. Mademoiselle was of no count whatever, the
child merely put up with her, calmly and easily, accepting
her little authority with faint scorn, compliant out of
childish arregance of indifference.

245

246 WOMEN IN LOVE

** Well, Winifred,”’ said the father, ** aren’t you glad Miss

Brangwen has come? She makes animals and birds in wood

and in clay, that the people in London write about in the

papers, praising them to the skies.’’

Winifred smiled slightly.

** Who told you, Daddie ?”’ she asked.

**'Who told me? Hermione told me, and Rupert
Birkin.’’

** Do you know them ?”? Winifred asked of Gudrun, turn-
ing to her with faint challenge.

** Yes,’’ said Gudrun.

Winifred readjusted herself a little. She had been ready ~

to accept Gudrun as a sort of servant. Now she saw it was

on terms of friendship they were intended to meet. She
was rather glad. She had so many half inferiors, whom she

tolerated with perfect good-humour.

Gudrun was very caim. She also did not take these
things very seriously. A new occasion was mostly spectacu-
lar to her. However, Winifred was a detached, ironic child,
she would never attach herself. Gudrun liked her and was
intrigued by her. The first meetings went off with a certain
humiliating clumsiness. Neither Winifred nor her instruc-
tress had any social grace.

Soon, however, they met in a kind of make-belief world.
Winifred did not notice human beings unless they were like
herself, playful and slightly mocking. She would accept
nothing but the world of amusement, and the serious people
of her life were the animals she had for pets. On those she
lavished, almost ironically, her affection and her companion-
ship. To the rest of the human scheme she submitted with
a faint bored indifference.

She had a pekinese dog called Looloo, which she loved.

** Let us draw Looloo,’’ said Gudrun, ** and see if we can
get his Looliness, shall we ?”

** Darling ! ”’ cried Winifred, rushing to the dog, that sat
with contemplative sadness on the hearth, and kissing its
bulging brow. ‘* Darling one, will you be drawn? Shall
its mummy draw its portrait??? Then she chuckled glee-
fully, and turning to Gudrun, said : ** Oh let’s ! ”

They proceeded to get pencils and paper, and were ready.

‘‘ Beautifullest,’’? cried Winifred, hugging the dog, ‘* sit
still while its mummy draws its beautiful portrait.”” The
dog looked up at her with grievous resignation in its large,

RABBIT 247
prominent eyes. She kissed it fervently, and said : ‘** I won-
der what mine will be like. It’s sure to be awful.”’

As she sketched she chuckled to herself, and cried out at
times :

** Oh darling, you’re so beautiful ! ’

And again chuckling, she rushed to embrace the dog, in
penitence, as if she were doing him some subtle injury. He
sat all the time with the resignation and fretfulness of’ ages
on his dark velvety face. She drew slowly, with a wicked
concentration in her eyes, her head on one side, an intense
stillness over her. She was as if working the spell of some
enchantment. Suddenly she had finished. She looked at
the dog, and then at her drawing, and then cried, with real
grief for the dog, and at the same time with a wicked exul-
tation :

** My beautiful, why did they ?”’

She took her paper to the dog, and held it under his nose.
He turned his head aside as in chagrin and mortification,
and she impulsively kissed his velvety bulging forehead.

** °s a Loolie, ’s a little Loozie! Look at his portrait,
darling, look at his portrait, that his mother has done of
him.”? She looked at her paper and chuckled. Then, kiss-
ing the dog once more, she rose and came gravely to Gud-
run, offering her the paper.

It was a grotesque little diagram of a grotesque little
animal, so wicked and so comical, a slow smile came over
Gudrun’ s face, unconsciously. And at her side Winifred
chuckled with glee, and said :

** Tt isn’t like him, is it? He’s much lovelier than that.
He’s so beautiful—mmm, Looloo, my sweet darling.’’ And
she flew off to embrace the chagrined little dog. He looked
up at her with reproachful, saturnine eyes, vanquished in his
extreme agedness of being. Then she flew back to her
drawing, and chuckled with satisfaction.

** It isn’t like him, is it ?’? she said to Gudrun.

** Yes, it’s very like him,’’ Gudrun replied.

The child treasured her drawing, carried it about with her,
and showed it, with a silent embarrassment, to everybody.

_ ** Vook,’’ she said, thrusting the paper into her father’s
hand.

** Why that’s Looloo! ’? he exclaimed. And he looked
down in surprise, hearing the almost inhuman chuckle of the
child at his side.

248 WOMEN IN LOVE

Gerald was away from home when Gudrun first came to
Shortlands. But the first morning he came back he watched
for her. It was a sunny, soft morning, and he lingered in
the garden paths, looking at the flowers that had come out
during his absence. He was clean and fit as ever, shaven,
his fair hair scrupulously parted at the side, bright in the
sunshine, his short, fair moustache closely clipped, his eyes
with their humorous kind twinkle, which was so deceptive.
He was dressed in black, his clothes sat well on his well-
nourished body. Yet as he lingered before the flower-beds
in the morning sunshine, there was a certain isolation, a fear
about him, as of something wanting.

Gudrun came up quickly, unseen. She was dressed in blue,
with woollen yellow stockings, like the Bluecoat boys. He
glanced up iu surprise. Her stockings always disconcerted
him, the pale-yellow stockings and the heavy heavy black
shoes. Winifred, who had been playing about the garden
with Mademoiselle and the dogs, came flitting towards
Gudrun. The child wore a dress of black-and-white stripes.
Her hair was rather short, cut round and hanging level in
her neck.

** We’re going to do Bismarck, aren’t we ?”’ she said, link-
ing her hand through Gudrun’s arm.

** Yes, we’re going to do Bismarck. Do you want to?”

** Oh yes—oh I do! I want most awfully to do Bis-
marck. He looks so splendid this morning, so fierce. He’s
almost as big as a lion.”? And the child chuckled sardonic-
ally at her own hyperbole. ‘* He’s a real king, he really
is.””

** Bon jour, Mademoiselle,” said the little French gover-
ness, wavering up with a slight bow, a bow of the sort that
Gudrun loathed, insolent.

** Winifred veut tant faire le portrait de Bismarck— !
Oh, mais toute la matinée—* We will do Bismarck this
morning ! ’—Bismarck, Bismarck, toujours Bismarck !
C’est un lapin, n’est-ce pas, mademoiselle ?”’

** Oui, c’est un grand lapin blane et noir. Vous ne
avez pas vu?” said Gudrun in her good, but rather heavy
French.

** Non, mademoiselle, Winifred n’a jamais voulu me le
faire voir. Tant de fois je le lui ai demandé, ‘ Qu’est ce
done que ce Bismarck, Winifred?’ Mais elle n’a pas voulu
me le dire. Son Bismarck, c’était un mystére.’’

RABBIT 249

‘* Oui, c’est un mystére, vraiment un mystére! Miss
Brangwen, say that Bismarck is a mystery,” cried Winifred.
© Bismarck, is a mystery, Bismarck, c’est un mystére, der
Bismarck, er ist ein Wunder,’’ said Gudrun, in mocking in-
cantation.

‘* Ja, er ist ein Wunder,’”’ repeated Winifred, with odd
seriousness, under which lay a wicked chuckle.

** Ist er auch ein Wunder?’’ came the slightly insolent
sneering of Mademoiselle.

** Doch ! ’”’ said Winifred briefly, indifferent.

*€ Doch ist er nicht ein Kénig. Beesmarck, he was not a
king, Winifred, as you have said. He was only—il n’était
que chancelier.”’ |

** Qu’est ce qu’un chancelier?’’? said Winifred, with
slightly contemptuous indifference.

** A chancelier is a chancellor, and a chancellor is, I be-
lieve, a sort of judge,’’ said Gerald coming up and shaking
hands with Gudrun. ‘* You’ll have made a song of Bis-
marck soon,”’’ said he.

Mademoiselle waited, and discreetly made her inclination,
and her greeting.

** So they wouldn’t let you see Bismarck, Mademoiselle ?’’
he said.

** Non, Monsieur.’’

** Ay, very mean of them. What are you going to do to
him, Miss Brangwen? I want him sent to the kitchen and
cooked.”’

** Oh no,”’ cried Winifred.

** We’re going to draw him,”’’ said Gudrun.

** Draw him and quarter him and dish him up,’’ he said,
being purposely fatuous.

** Oh no,”’ cried Winifred with emphasis, chuckling.

Gudrun detected the tang of mockery in him, and she
looked up and smiled into his face. He felt his nerves
caressed. Their eyes met in knowledge.

** How do you like Shortlands ?’’ he asked.

** Oh, very much,’’ she said, with nonchalance.

** Glad you do. Have you noticed these flowers ??’

He led her along the path. She followed intently.
Winifred came, and the governess lingered in the rear.
They stopped before some veined salpiglossis flowers.

** Aren’t they wonderful ?’’ she cried, looking at them ab-
sorbedly. Strange how her reverential, almost ecstatic

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250 WOMEN id Naa

admiration of the flowers caressed his nerves. She stooped
down, and touched the trumpets, with infinitely fine and
delicate-touching finger-tips. It filled him with ease to see
her. When she rose, her eyes, hot with the beauty of the
flowers, looked into his.

‘© What are jthey ?’’ she asked.

** Sort of petunia, I suppose,’’ he answered. ‘* I don’t
really know them.’’

** They are quite strangers to me,” she said.

They stood together in a false intimacy, a nervous con-
tact. And he was in love with her. |

She was aware of Mademoiselle standing near, like a little
French beetle, observant and calculating. She moved away
with Winifred, saying they would go to find Bismarck.

Gerald watched them go, looking all the while at the soft,
_ full, still body of Gudrun, in its silky cashmere. _ How
silky and rich and soft her body must be. An excess of
appreciation came over his mind, she was the all-desirable,
the all-beautiful. He wanted only to come to her, nothing
more. He was only this, this being that should come to
her, and be given to her.

At the same time he was finely and acutely aware of
Mademoiselle’s neat, brittle finality of form. She was like
some elegant beetle with thin ankles, perched on her high
heels, her glossy black dress perfectly correct, her dark hair
done high and admirably. How repulsive her complete-
ness and her finality was! He loathed her.

Yet he did admire her. She was perfectly correct. And
it did rather annoy him, that Gudrun came dressed in
startling colours, like a macaw, when the family was in
mourning. Like a macaw she was! He watched the lin-
gering way she took her feet from the ground. And her
ankles were pale yellow, and her dress a deep blue. Yet it
pleased him. It pleased him very much. He felt the
challenge in her very attire—she challenged the whole
world. And he smiled as to the note of a trumpet.

Gudrun and Winifred went through the house to the back,
where were the stables and the out-buildings.. Everywhere
was still and deserted. Mr Crich had gone out for a short
drive, the stable-man had just led round Gerald’s horse.
The two giris went to the hutch that stood in a corner, and
looked at the great black-and-white rabbit.

** Isn’t he beautiful! Oh, do look at him listening! —

ee

gel

eta,
RABBIT 951

Doesn’t he look silly! *? she laughed quickly, then added

** Oh, do let’s do him listening, do let us, he listens with so
much of himself ;—don’t you darling Bismarck ?”’

Can we take him out?” said Gudrun.

** He’s very strong. He really is extremely ston
She looked at Gudrun, her head on one side, in odd calecu-
lating mistrust.

** But we’ll try, shall we ?’’

** Yes, if you like. But he’s a fearful kicker! ”’

They took the key to unlock the door. The rabbit ex-
ploded in a wild rush round the hutch.

** He scratches most awfully sometimes,’’ cried Winifred
in excitement. ‘* Oh do look at him, isn’t he wonderful ! ”’
The rabbit tore round the hutch in a flurry. ‘* Bismarck !”
cried the child, in rousing excitement. ‘* How dreadful
you are! You are beastly.”? Winifred looked up at Gud-
run with some misgiving in her wild excitement. Gudrun
smiled sardonically with her mouth. Winifred made a
strange crooning noise of unaccountable excitement. ‘* Now
he’s still! ’’ she cried, seeing the rabbit settled down in a
far corner of the hutch. ‘* Shall we take him now?” she
whispered excitedly, mysteriously, looking up at Gudrun
and edging very close. ‘‘ Shall we get him now?— ”’ she
chuckled wickedly to herself.

They unlocked the door of the hutch. Gudrun thrust in
her arm and seized the great, lusty rabbit as it crouched
still, she grasped its long ears. It set its four feet flat, and
thrust back. There was a long scraping sound as it was
hauled forward, and in another instant it was in mid-air,
lunging wildly, its body flying like a spring coiled and re-
leased, as it lashed out, suspended from the ears. Gudrun
held the black-and-white tempest at arms’ length, averting
her face. But the rabbit was magically strong, it was all
she could do to keep her grasp. She almost lost her pre-
sence of mind.
** Bismarck, Bismarck, you are behaving terribly,’’ said
Winifred in a rather frightened voice, ‘* Oh, do put him
down, he’s beastly.’’

Gudrun stood for a moment astounded by the thunder-
storm that had sprung into being in her grip. Then her
colour came up, a heavy rage came over her like a cloud.
She stood shaken as a house in a storm, and utterly over-
come. Her heart was arrested with fury at the mindless-

252 WOMEN IN LOVE

ness and the bestial stupidity of this struggle, her wrists
were badly scored by the claws of the beast, a heavy cruelty
welled up in her.

Gerald came round as she was trying to capture the flying
rabbit under her arm. He saw, with subtle recognition, her
sullen passion of cruelty. *

** You shculd let one of the men do that for you,”? he
said hurrying up.

** Oh, he’s so horrid ! ’? cried Winifred, almost frantic.

He held out his nervous, sinewy hand and took the rabbit
by the ears, from Gudrun. |

** It’s most fearfully strong,’’ she cried, in a high voice,
like the crying of a seagull, strange and vindictive.

The rabbit made itself into a ball in the air, and lashed
out, flinging itself into a bow. It really seemed demoniacal.
Gudrun saw Gerald’s body tighten, saw a sharp blindness
come into his eyes.

** T know these beggars of old,’’ he said.

The long, demon-like beast lashed out again, spread on
the air as if it were flying, looking something like a dragon,
then closing up again, inconceivably powerful and explosive.
The man’s body, strung to its efforts, vibrated strongly.
Then a sudden sharp, white-edged wrath came up in him.
Swift as lightning he drew back and brought his free hand
down like a hawk on the neck of the rabbit. Simultan-
eously, there came the unearthly abhorrent scream of a
rabbit in the fear of death. It made one immense
writhe, tore his wrists and his sleeves in a final convulsion,
all its belly flashed white in a whirlwind of paws, and
then he had slung it round and had it under his arm, fast.
It cowered and skulked. His face was gleaming with a
smile.

** You wouldn’t think there was all that force in a rab-
bit,’’ he said, looking at Gudrun. And he saw her eyes
black as night in her pallid face, she looked almost un-
earthly. The scream of the rabbit, after the violent tussle,
seemed to have torn the veil of her consciousness. He
looked at her, and the whitish, electric gleam in his face
intensified. .

** T don’t really like him,”’ Winifred was crooning. ‘* I
don’t care for him as I do for Loozie. He’s hateful really.”

A smile twisted Gudrun’s face, as she recovered. She
knew she was revealed.

ie RABBIT 253

** Don’t they make the most fearful noise when they
seream ?”’ she cried, the high note in her voice, like a sea-
gull’s cry.

** Abominable,’’ he said.

** He shouldn’t be so silly when he has to be taken out,”’
Winifred was saying, putting out her hand and touching the
rabbit tentatively, as it skulked under his arm, motionless
as if it were dead.

** He’s not dead, is he Gerald ?’’ she asked.

** No, he ought to be,” he said.

** Yes, he ought! ’’ cried the child, with a sudden flush of
amusement. And she touched the rabbit with more confi-
dence. ‘‘ His heart is beating so fast. Isn’t he funny?
He really is.”’ |

** Where do you want him ?”’ asked Gerald.

** In the little green court,’’ she said.

Gudrun looked at Gerald with strange, darkened eyes,
strained with underworld knowledge, almost supplicating,
like those of a creature which is at his mercy, yet which is
his ultimate victor. He did not know what to say to her.
He felt the mutual hellish recognition. And he felt he ought
to say something, to cover it. He had the power of light-
ning in his nerves, she seemed like a soft recipient of his
magical, hideous white fire. He was unconfident, he had
qualms of fear.

** Did he hurt you?” he asked.

** No,”’ she said.

** He’s an insensible beast,’? he said, turning his face
away. ,

They came to the little court, which was shut in by old
red walls in whose crevices wall-flowers were growing. The
grass was soft and fine and old, a level floor carpeting the
court, the sky was blue overhead. Gerald tossed the rabbit
down. It crouched still and would not move. Gudrun
watched it with faint horror.

** Why doesn’t it move ?”’ she cried.

** It’s skulking,’’ he said.

She looked up at him, and a slight sinister smile con-
tracted her white face.

**Isn’t it a fool! ’’she cried. ‘‘ Isn’t it a sickening
fool?’? The vindictive mockery in her voice made his brain
quiver. Glancing up at him, into his eyes, she revealed
again the mocking, white-cruel recognition. There was a

254 WOMEN IN LOVE

league between them, abhorrent to them both. They were | ;

implicated with each other in abhorrent mysteries.
** How many scratches have you?’ he asked, show-
ing his hard forearm, white and hard and torn in red

gashes.
“ How really vile! *? she cried, flushing with a ‘sinister
vision. ‘** Mine is nothing.”

She lifted her arm and showed a deep red score down the
silken white flesh.

** What a devil! ’? he exclaimed. But it was as if he had
had knowledge of her in the long red rent of her forearm, so
silken and soft. He did not want to touch her. He would
have to make himself touch her, deliberately. The long,
shallow red rip seemed torn across his own brain, tearing
the surface of his ultimate consciousness, letting through
the forever unconscious, unthinkable red ether of the be-
yond, the obscene beyond.

** It doesn’t hurt you very much, does it?’? he asked,
solicitous.

** Not at all,’ she cried.

And suddenly the rabbit, which had been crouching as if
it were a flower, so still and soft, suddenly burst into life.
Round and round the court it went, as if shot from a gun,
round and round like a furry meteorite, in a tense hard
circle that seemed to bind their brains. They all stood in
amazement, smiling uncannily, as if the rabbit were obeying
some unknown incantation. Round and round it flew, on
the grass under the old red walls like a storm.

And then quite suddenly it settled down, hobbled among
the grass, and sat considering, its nose twitching like a bit
of fluifin the wind. After having considered for a few
minutes, a soft bunch with a black, open eye, which perhaps
was looking at them, perhaps was not, it hobbled calmly
forward and began to nibble the grass with that mean
motion of a rabbit’s quick eating.

** It’s mad,’’ said Gudrun. ‘* It is most decidedly mad.”’

He laughed.

** The question is,”’ he said, ‘* what is madnesal ?P I don’t
suppose it is rabbit-mad.”’

** Don’t you think it is??? she asked.

** No. That’s what it is to be a rabbit.”

There was a queer, faint, obscene smile over his face. She
looked at him and saw him, and knew that he was initiate

ae

as she was initiate. This thwarted her, and contravened
her, for the moment.

-** God be praised we aren’t rabbits,’’ she said, in a high,
shrill voice.

The smile intensified a little, on his face.

** Not rabbits ?”? he said, looking at her fixedly.

Slowly her face relaxed into a smile of obscene recogni-
tion.

like way. ‘‘ — All that, and more.”? Her eyes looked up
at him with shocking nonchalance.

He felt again as if she had hit him across the face—or
rather, as if she had torn him across the breast, dully,
finally. He turned aside.

** Kat, eat my darling! ’? Winifred was softly conjuring
the rabbit, and creeping forward to touch it. It hobbled
away from her. ‘‘ Let its mother stroke its fur then, dar-
ling, because it is so mysterious. .

255°

** Ah Gerald,” she said, in a strong, slow, almost man-

ay es Pae eb ke AOR Cs th yaa BS ok Peak eee Se fr
Bey Vi we Ay :

CHAP: XIX. MOONY

AFTER his illness Birkin went to the south of France for a
time. He did not write, nobody heard anything of him.
Ursula, left alone, felt as if everything were lapsing out.
There seemed to be no hope in the world. One was a tiny
little rock with the tide of nothingness rising higher and
higher. She herself was real, and only herself—just like a
rock in a wash of flood-water. The rest was all nothingness.
She was hard and indifferent, isolated in herself.

There was nothing for it now, but contemptuous, resis-
tant indifference. All the world was lapsing into a grey
wish-wash of nothingness, she had no contact and no con-
nection anywhere. She despised and detested the whole
show. From the bottom of her heart, from the bottom of
her soul, she despised and detested people, adult people.
She loved only children and animals : children she loved pas-
sionately, but coldly. They made her want to hug them, to
protect them, to give them life. But this very love, based
on pity and despair, was only a bondage and a pain to her.
She loved best of all the animals, that were single and un-
social as she herself was. She loved the horses and cows in
the field. Each was single and to itself, magical. It was
not referred away to some detestable social principle. It
was incapable of soulfulness and tragedy, which she detested
so profoundly.

She could be very pleasant and flattering, almost subser-
vient, to people she met. But no one was taken in. In-
stinctively each felt her contemptuous mockery of the
human being in himself, or herself. She had a profound
grudge against the human being. That which the word
** human ”’ stood for was despicable and repugnant to her.

Mostly her heart was closed in this hidden, unconscious
strain of contemptuous ridicule. She thought she loved,
she thought she was full of love. This was her idea of her-
self. But the strange brightness of her presence, a marvel-
lous radiance of intrinsic vitality, was a luminousness of
supreme repudiation, nothing but repudiation.

Yet, at moments, she yielded and softened, she wanted
pure love, only pure love. This other, this state of constant

256

fe Wee i 2H ee
iit aa 257

unfailing repudiation, was a strain, a suffering also. A ter-
rible desire for pure love overcame her again.

She went out one evening, numbed by this constant essen-
tial suffering. Those who are timed for destruction must
die now. The knowledge of this reached a finality, a finish-
ing in her. And the finality released her. If fate would
carry off in death or downfall all those who were timed to
go, why need she trouble, why repudiate any further. She
was free of it all, she could seek a new union elsewhere.

Ursula set off to Willey Green, towards the mill. She
came to Willey Water. It was almost full again, after its
period of emptiness. Then she turned off through the

* woods. The night had fallen, it was dark. But she forgot
to be afraid, she who had such great sources of fear. Among
the trees, far from any human beings, there was a sort of
magic peace. The more one could find a pure loneliness,
with no taint of people, the better one felt. She was in
reality terrified, horrified in her apprehension of people.

She started, noticing something on her right hand, be-
tween the tree trunks. It was like a great presence, watch-
ing her, dodging her. She started violently. It was only
the moon, risen through the thin trees. But it seemed so
mysterious, with its white and deathly smile... And there
was no avoiding it. Night or day, one could not escape the
sinister face, triumphant and radiant like this moon, with a
high smile. She hurried on, cowering from the white
planet. She would just see the pond at the mill before she
went home.

_ Not wanting to go through the yard, because of the dogs,
she turned off along the hill-side to descend on the pond
from above. The moon was transcendent over the bare,
open space, she suffered from being exposed to it. There
was a glimmer of nightly rabbits across the ground. The
night was as clear as crystal, and very still. She could hear
a distant coughing of a sheep.

So she swerved down to the steep, tree-hidden bank above
the pond, where the alders twisted their roots. She was
glad to pass into the shade out of the moon. There she
stood, at the top of the fallen-away bank, her hand on the
rough trunk of a tree, looking at the water, that was perfect
in its stillness, floating the moon upon it. But for some
reason she disliked it. It did not give her anything. She
listened for the hoarse rustle of the sluice. And she wished

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258 WOMEN IN LOVE

for something else out of the night, she wanted another
night, not this moon-brilliant hardness. She could feel her
soul crying out in her, lamenting desolately. |

She saw a shadow moving by the water. It would be
Birkin. He had come back then, unawares. She accepted
it without remark, nothing mattered to her. She sat down
among the roots of the alder tree, dim and veiled, hearing
the sound of the sluice like dew distilling audibly into the
night. The islands were dark and half revealed, the reeds
were dark also, only some of them had a little frail fire of
reflection. A fish leaped secretly, revealing the light in the
pond. This fire of the chill night breaking constantly on to
the pure darkness, repelled her. She wished it were per-
fectly dark, perfectly, and noiseless and without motion.
Birkin, smali and dark also, his hair tinged with moonlight,
wandered nearer. He was quite near, and yet he did not
exist in her. He did not know she was there. Supposing
he did something he would not wish to be seen doing, think-
ing he was quite private? But there, what did it matter?
What did the small privacies matter? How could it matter,
what he did? How can there be any secrets, we are all the
same organisms? How can there be any secrecy, when
everything is known to all of us?

He was touching unconsciously the dead husks of flowers
as he passed by, and talking disconnectedly to himself.

** You can’t go away,’”’ he was saying. ‘* There is no
away. You only withdraw upon yourself.”

He threw a dead flower-husk on to the water.

** An antiphony—they lie, and you sing back to them.
There wouldn’t have to be any truth, if there weren’t any
lies. Then one needn’t assert anything— ”’

He stood still, looking at the water, and throwing upon it
the husks of the flowers. |

** Cybele—curse her! The accursed Syria Dea! Does
one begrudge it her? What else is there—?”’

Ursula wanted to laugh loudly and hysterically, hearing
his isolated voice speaking out. It was so ridiculous.

He stood staring at the water. Then he stooped and
picked up a stone, which he threw sharply at the pond.
Ursula was aware of the bright moon leaping and swaying,
all distorted, in her eyes. It seemed to shoot out arms of
fire like a cuttle-fish, like a luminous polyp, palpitating
strongly before her.

Din ite il he ae ana .
MOONY ide

And his shadow on the border of the pond, was watching
for a few moments, then he stooped and groped on the
ground. Then again there was a burst of sound, and a
burst of brilliant light, the moon had exploded on the water,
and was flying asunder in flakes of white and dangerous
fire. Rapidly, like white birds, the fires all broken rose
across the pond, fleeing in clamorous confusion, battling
with the flock of dark waves that were forcing their way in.
The furthest waves of light, fleeing out, seemed to be clam-
ouring against the shore for escape, the waves of darkness
came in heavily, running under towards the centre. But at
the centre, the heart of all, was still a vivid, incandescent
quivering of a white moon not quite destroyed, a white body
of fire writhing and striving and not even now broken open,
not yet violated. It seemed to be drawing itself together
with strange, violent pangs, in blind effort. It was getting
stronger, it was re-asserting itself, the inviolable moon.
And the rays were hastening in in thin lines of light, to re-
turn to the strengthened moon, that shook upon the water
in triumphant reassumption.

Birkin stood and watched, motionless, till the pond was
almost calm, the moon was almost serene. Then, satis-
fied of so much, he looked for more stones. She felt his in-
visible tenacity. And in a moment again, the broken lights
scattered in explosion over her face, dazzling her; and then,
almost immediately, came the second shot. The moon leapt
up white and burst through the air. Darts of bright light
shot asunder, darkness swept over the centre. There was
no moon, only a battlefield of broken lights and shadows,
running close together. Shadows, dark and heavy, struck
again and again across the place where the heart of the
moon had been, obliterating it altogether. The white frag-
ments pulsed up and down, and could not find where to go,
apart and brilliant on the water like the petals of a rose
that a wind has blown far and wide.

Yet again, they were flickering their way to the centre,
finding the path blindly, enviously. And again, all was
still, as Birkin and Ursula watched. The waters were Joud
on the shore. He saw the moon regathering itself in-
sidiously, saw the heart of the rose intertwining vigorously
and blindly, calling back the scattered fragments, winning
home the fragments, in a pulse and in effort of return.

And he was not satisfied. Like a madness, he must go

260 WOMEN IN LOVE
on. He got large stones, and threw them, one after the
other, at the white-burning centre of the ‘moon, till there
was nothing but a rocking of hollow noise, and a pond
surged up, no moon any more, only a few broken flakes
tangled and glittering broadeast in the darkness, without
aim or meaning, a darkened confusion, like a black and
white kaleidoscope tossed at random. The hollow night was
rocking and crashing with noise, and from the sluice came
sharp, regular flashes of sound. Flakes of light appeared
here and there, glittering tormented among the shadows, ©
far off, in strange places; among the dripping shadow of the
willow on the island. Birkin stood and listened and was
satisfied.

Ursula was dazed, her mind was all gone. She felt she
had fallen to the ground and was spilled out, like water on
the earth. Motionless and spent she remained in the gloom.
Though even now she was aware, unseeing, that in the dark-
ness was a little tumult of ebbing flakes of light, a cluster
dancing secretly in a round, twining and coming steadily
together. They were gathering a heart again, they were
coming once more into being. Gradually the fragments
caught together re-united, heaving, rocking, dancing, falling
back as in panic, but working their way home again persis-
tently, making semblance of fleeing away when they had
advanced, but always flickering nearer, a little closer to the
mark, the cluster growing mysteriously larger and brighter,
as gleam after gleam fell in with the whole, until a ragged
rose, a distorted, frayed moon was shaking upon the waters
again, re-asserted, renewed, trying to recover from its con-
vulsion, to get over the disfigurement and the agitation, to
be whole and composed, at peace. |

Birkin lingered vaguely by the water. Ursula was afraid
that he would stone the moon again. She slipped from her
seat and went down to him, saying : |

** You won’t throw stones at it any more, will you?”’

** How long have you been there ?”’

** All the time. You won’t throw any more stones, will
you P”’

** IT wanted to see if I could make it be quite gone off the
pond,’’ he said. |
** Yes, it was horrible, really. Why should you hate the
moon? It hasn’t done you any harm, has it P’’

‘© Was it hate P”’ he said.

Bree, Se Oe a lid 8 eee, ae p> Dh rite Co eed”) tenet ie Apa *"@ i
aay, s 4é > STs MDOP Amey ons alk ix f
4 Be Te ae ie Be a ek ae x i j PV beret

MOONY | - 261

And they were silent for a few minutes.

** When did you come back ?”’ she said.

** 'To-day.”°

_** Why did you never write ?”’

** T could find nothing to say.”’

** Why was there nothing to say ?”’

**T don’t know. Why are there no daffodils now ?”’

66 No.”?

Again there was a space of silence. Ursula looked at the
moon. It had gathered itself together, and was quivering
slightly.

** Was it good for you, to be alone ?’’ she asked.

** Perhaps. Not that I know much. But I got over a
good deal. Did you do anything important ?”’

** No. I looked at England, and thought I’d done with
77

** Why England ?”’ he asked in surprise.

** T don’t know, it came like that.’’ :

** It isn’t a question of nations,’’ he said. ‘* France is

- far worse.”’

** Yes, I know. I felt I’d done with it all.”’

They went and sat down on the roots of the trees, in the
shadow. And being silent, he remembered the beauty of
her eyes, which were sometimes filled with light, like spring,
suffused with wonderful promise. So he said to her, slowly,
with difficulty :

** There is a golden light in you, which I wish you would

give me.”’ It was as if he had been thinking of this for

some time.

She was startled, she seemed to leap clear of him. Yet
also she was pleased.

** What kind of a light,”’ she asked.

But he was shy, and did not say any more. So the

moment passed for this time. And gradually a feeling of

sorrow came over her.

** My life is unfulfilled,’ she said.

** Yes,’ he answered briefly, not wanting to hear this.
- ** And I feel as if nobody could ever really love me,’’ she
said.

But he did not answer.

** You think, don’t you,’ she said slowly, ‘* that I only
want physical things? It isn’t true. I want you to serve
my spirit.’’

262 WOMEN IN LOVE

** T know youdo. I know you don’t want physical things
by themselves. But, I want you to give me—to give
your spirit to me—that golden light which is you—which
you don’t know—give it me— ”

After a moment’s silence she replied :

** But how can I, you don’t love me! You only want

your own ends. You don’t want to serve me, and yet you
want me to serve you. It is so one-sided! ”

It was a great effort to him to maintain this conversation,
and to press for the thing he wanted from her, the surrender
of her spirit.

** It is different,’’ he said. ‘*‘ The two kinds of service
are so different. I serve you in another way—not through
yourself,—somewhere else. But I want us to be together
without bothering about ourselves—to be really together
because we are together, as if it were a phenomenon, not a
thing we have to maintain by our own effort.”’

** No,’’ she said, pondering. ‘*‘ You are just egocentric.
You never have any enthusiasm, you never come out with
any spark towards me. You want yourself, really, and
your own affairs. And you want me just to be there, to
serve you.””

But this only made him shut off from her.

** Ah well,’? he said, ‘*‘ words make no’matter, any way.
The thing is between us, or it isn’t.”’

** You don’t even love me,’’ she cried.

** I do,’”’ he said angrily. ‘* But I want—’’ His mind
saw again the lovely golden light of spring transfused
through her eyes, as through some wonderful window. And
he wanted her to be with him there, in this world of proud
indifference. But what was the good of telling her he
wanted this company in proud indifference. What was the
good of talking, any way? It must happen beyond the
sound of words. It was merely ruinous to try to work her
by conviction. This was a paradisal bird that could never
be netted, it must fly by itself to the heart.

‘* T always think I am going to be loved—and then I am
letdown. You don’t love mé, you know. You don’t want
to serve me. You only want yourself.’’

A shiver of rage went over his veins, at this repeated :
** You don’t want to serve me.”? All the paradisal dis-
appeared from him.

** No,’’ he said, irritated, ‘‘ I don’t want to serve you,

: eo
|

MOONY 263
because there is nothing there to serve. What you want me
to serve, is nothing, mere nothing. It isn’t even you, it is
your mere female quality. And I wouldn’t give a straw for
your female ego—it’s a rag doll.’’

** Ha! *? she laughed in mockery. ‘* That’s all you think
of me, is it? And then you have the impudence to say you
love me! ”?

She rose in anger, to go home.

** You want the paradisal unknowing,’’ she said, turning
round on him as he still sat half-visible in the shadow. “ I
know what that means, thank you. You want me to be
your thing, never to criticise you or to have anything to say
for myself. You want me to be a mere thing for you! No
thank you! If you want that, there are plenty of women
who will give it to you. There are plenty of women who
will lie down for you to walk over them—go to them then,
if that’s what you want—go to them.”’

** No,” he said, outspoken with anger. ‘‘ I want you to
drop your assertive will, your frightened apprehen-
sive self-insistence, that is what I want. I want
you to trust yourself so implicitly, that you can
let yourself go.’

** Let myself go! ’? she re-echoed in mockery. ‘* I can
let myself go, easily enough. It is you who can’t let your-
self go, it is you who hang on to yourself as if it were your
only treasure. You—you are the Sunday school teacher—
Y ou—you preacher.”’

The amount of truth that was in this made him stiff and
unheeding of her.

** I don’t mean let yourself go in the Dionysie ecstatic
way, he said. ‘* I know you can do that. But I hate
ecstasy, Dionysic or any other. It’s like going round in a
squirrel cage. I want you not to care about yourself, just
to be there and not to care about yourself, not to insist—
be glad and sure and indifferent.”’

** Who insists ?’’ she mocked. ‘* Who is it that keeps on
insisting? Itisn’t me! ”’

There was a weary, mocking bitterness in her voice. He
was silent for some time.

** IT know,”’’ he said. ‘* While ever either of us insists to
the other, we are all wrong. But there we are, the accord
doesn’t come.”’ :

They sat in stillness under the shadow of the trees by the

264 WOMEN IN LOVE

bank. The night was white around them, they were in the my

darkness, barely conscious.

Gradually, the stillness and peace came over them. She

put her hand tentatively on his. Their hands clasped
softly and silently, in peace.

** Do you really love me ?”’ she said.

He laughed.

** I call that your war-cry,”’ he replied, amused.

** Why ! ”’ she cried, amused and really wondering.

** Your insistence—Your war-cry—‘* A Brangwen, A
Brangwen,’—an old battle-cry. Yours is ‘ Do you love me?
Yield knave, or die.’ ”’

** No,”’ she said, pleading, ‘‘ not like that. Not like
that. But I must know that you love me, mustn’t 1?”

** Well then, know it and have done with it.’

** But do you P”’

** Yes, I do. I love you, and I know it’s final. It is
final, so ‘why say any more about it.”’

She was silent for some moments, in delight and doubt.

** Are you sure?” she said, nestling happily near to him.

** Quite sure—so now have done—accept it and have
done.’’ |

She was nestled quite close to him.

** Have done with what ?’’ she murmured, happily.

** With bothering,”’ he said.

She clung nearer to him. He held her close, and kissed
her softly, gently. It was such peace and heavenly free-
dom, just to fold her and kiss her gently, and not to have
any thoughts or any desires or any will, just to be still with
her, to be perfectly still and together, in a peace that was
not sleep, but content in bliss. To be content in bliss, with-
out desire or insistence anywhere, this was heaven: to be
together in happy stillness.

For a long time she nestled to him, and he kissed her
softly, her hair, her face, her ears, gently, softly, like dew
falling. But this warm breath on her ears disturbed her
again, kindled the old destructive fires. She cleaved to
him, and he could feel his blood changing like quicksilver.

** But we'll be still, shall we ?’’ he said.

** Yes,’’ she said, as if submissively.

And she continued to nestle against him.

But in a little while she drew away and looked at him.

** IT must be going home,”’ she said.

MOONY 265

4 Must you—how sad,” he replied.

She leaned forward and put up her mouth to be kissed.

** Are you really sad ?’? she murmured, smiling.

** Yes,’’ he said, ‘‘ I wish we could stay as we were,
always.’

** Always! Do you?’? she murmured, as he kissed her.
And then, out of a full throat, she ordoned ** Kiss me!
Kiss me! ”? And she cleaved close to him. He kissed her
many times. But he too had his idea and his will. He
wanted only gentle communion, no other, no passion now.
So that soon she drew away, put on her hat and went home.

The next day however, he felt wistful and yearning. He
thought he had been wrong, perhaps. Perhaps he had been
wrong to go to her with an idea of what he wanted. Was it
really only an idea, or was it the interpretation of a pro-
found yearning? If the latter, how was it he was always
talking about sensual fulfilment? The two did not agree
very well.

Suddenly he found himself face to face with a situation.
It was as simple as this : fatally simple. On the one hand,
he knew he did not want a further sensual experience—some-
thing deeper, darker, than ordinary life could give. He re-
membered the African fetishes he had seen at Halliday’s so
often. There came back to him one, a statuette about two
feet high, a tall, slim, elegant figure from West Africa, in
dark wood, glossy and suave. It was a woman, with hair
dressed high, like a melon-shaped dome. He remembered
her vividly : she was one of his soul’s intimates. Her body
was long and elegant, her face was crushed tiny like a.
beetle’s, she had rows of round heavy collars, like a column
of quoits, on her neck. He remembered her: her astonish-
ing cultured elegance, her diminished, beetle face, the
astounding long elegant body, on short, ugly legs, with such
protuberant buttocks, so weighty and unexpected below her
slim long loins. She knew what he himself did not know.
She had thousands of years of purely sensual, purely un-
spiritual knowledge behind her. It must have been
thousands of years since her race had died, mystically : that
is, since the relation between the senses and the outspoken
mind had broken, leaving the experience all in one sort,
mystically sensual. Thousands of years ago, that which was
imminent in himself must have taken place in these
Africans : the goodness, the holiness, the desire for creation

266 WOMEN IN LOVE

and productive happiness must have lapsed, leaving the
single impulse for knowledge in one sort, mindless progres-
sive knowledge through the senses, knowledge arrested and
ending in the senses, mystic knowledge in disintegration and
dissolution, knowledge such as the beetles have, which live
purely within the world of corruption and cold dissolution.
This was why her face looked like a beetle’s : this was why
the Egyptians worshipped the ball-rolling scarab : because
of the principle of knowledge in dissolution and corruption.

There is a long way we can travel, after the death-break :
after that point when the soul in intense suffering breaks,
breaks away from its organic hold like a leaf that falls. We
fall from the connection with life and hope, we lapse from
pure integral being, from creation and liberty, and we fall
into the long, long African process of purely sensual under-
standing, knowledge in the mystery of dissolution.

He realised now that this is a long process—thousands of
years it takes, after the death of the creative spirit. He
realised that there were great mysteries to be unsealed, sen-
sual, mindless, dreadful mysteries, far beyond the phallic
cult. How far, in their inverted culture, had these West
Africans gone beyond phallic knowledge? Very, very far.
Birkin recalled again the female figure : the elongated, long,
long body, the curious unexpected heavy buttocks, the long,
imprisoned neck, the face with tiny features like a beetle’s.
This was far beyond any phallic knowledge, sensual subtle
realities far beyond the scope of phallic investigation.

There remained this way, this awful African process, to
be fulfilled. It would be done differently by the white races.
The white races, having the arctic north behind them, the
vast abstraction of ice and snow, would fulfil a mystery of
ice-destructive knowledge, snow-abstract annihilation.
Whereas the West Africans, controlled by the burning death-
abstraction of the Sahara, had been fulfilled in sun-destruc-
tion, the putrescent mystery of sun-rays.

Was this then all that remained? Was there left now
nothing but to break off from the happy creative being, was
the time up? Is our day of creative life finished? Does
there remain to us only the strange, awful afterwards of
the knowledge in dissolution, the African knowledge, but
different in us, who are blond and blue-eyed from the
north?

Birkin thought of Gerald. He was one of these strange

MOONY 267

white wonderful demons from the north, fulfilled in the de-
structive frost mystery. And was he fated to pass away in
this knowledge, this one process of frost-knowledge, death
by perfect cold? Was he a messenger, an omen of the
universal dissolution into whiteness and snow?

Birkin was frightened. He was tired too, when he had
reached this length of speculation. Suddenly his strange,
strained attention gave way, he could not attend to these
mysteries any more. There was another way, the way of
freedom. There was the paradisal entry into pure, single
being, the individual soul taking precedence over love and
desire for union, stronger than any pangs of emotion, a
lovely state of free proud singleness, which accepted the
obligation of the permanent connection with others, and
with the other, submits to the yoke and leash of love, but
never forfeits its own proud individual singleness, even
while it loves and yields.

There was the other way, the remaining way. And he
must run to follow it. He thought of Ursula, how sensitive
and delicate she really was, her skin so over-fine, as if one
skin were wanting. She was really so marvellously gentle
and sensitive. Why did he ever forget it? He must go to
her at once. He must ask her to marry him. They must
marry at once, and so make a definite pledge, enter into a
definite communion. He must set out at once and ask her,
this moment. There was no moment to spare.

He drifted on swiftly to Beldover, half-unconscious of his
own movement. He saw the town on the slope of the hill,
not straggling, but as if walled-in with the straight, final
streets of miners’ dwellings, making a great square, and it
looked like Jerusalem to his fancy. The world was all
strange and transcendent.

Rosalind opened the door to him. She started slightly,
as a young girl will, and said:

** Oh, I'll tell father.”?

With which she disappeared, leaving Birkin in the hall,
looking at some reproductions from Picasso, lately intro-
duced by Gudrun. He was admiring the almost wizard,
sensuous apprehension of the earth, when Will Brangwen
appeared, rolling down his shirt sleeves.

** Well,”’ said Brangwen, “ Il] get a coat.’? And he too
disappeared for a moment. Then he returned, and opened
the door of the drawing-room, saying :

TRA Pe oe eS Wee ee ee ae en) © ee
he ead, es i Aang iw Bed 3 cea ery cp
Lee RRA t A eR ok

268 WOMEN IN LOVE

** You must excuse me, I was just doing a bit of work

in the shed. Come inside, will you.”’

Birkin entered and sat down. He looked at the bright,

reddish face of the other man, at the narrow brow and the
very bright eyes, and at the rather sensual lips that unrolled
wide and expansive under the black cropped moustache.
How curious it was that this was a human being! What
Brangwen thought himself to be, how meaningless it was,
confronted with the reality of him. Birkin could see only a
strange, inexplicable, almost patternless collection of pas-
sions and desires and suppressions and traditions and
mechanical ideas, all cast unfused and disunited into this
slender, bright-faced man of nearly fifty, who was as un-
resolved now as he was at twenty, and as uncreated. How
could he be the parent of Ursula, when he was not created
himself. He was not a parent. A slip of living flesh had
been transmitted through him, but the spirit had not come
from him. The spirit had not come from any ancestor, it
had come out of the unknown. A child is the child of the
mystery, or it is uncreated.

** The weather’s not so bad as it has been,’’ said Brang-
wen, after waiting a moment. There was no connection
between the two men.

** No,”’ said Birkin. ** It was full moon two days
ago.”’

**Oh! You believe in the moon then, affecting the

weather ?”’

** No, I don’t think I do. I don’t really know enough
about it.”?

** You know what they say? The moon and the weather
may change together, but the change of the moon won’t
change the weather.”’

** Is that it?’? said Birkin. ‘* I hadn’t heard it.”

There was a pause. Then Birkin said.

** Am I hindering you? I called to see Ursula, really.
Is she at home ?’’

** IT don’t believe she is. _I believe she’s gone to the

library. I?ll just see.’’

Birkin could hear him enquiring in the dining room.

** No,”’ he said, coming back. ‘* But she won’t be long.
You wanted to speak to her ?’’

Birkin looked across at the other man with curious calm,
clear eyes.

—-

MOONY 269
6S Asa matter of fact,’? he said, ** I wanted to ask her to
marry me.’

A point of light came on the golden-brown ayes of the
elder man.

‘© O-oh?’’ he said, looking at Birkin, then dropping his
eyes before the calm, steadily watching look of the other :
** Was she expecting you then ?’’

** No,”’ said Birkin.

“No? I didn’t know anything of this sort was on
foot— ’’? Brangwen smiled awkwardly.

Birkin looked back at him, and said to himself: *‘ I

_ wonder why it should be ‘ on foot ’?! ’? Aloud he said :

‘* No, it’s perhaps rather sudden.’? At which, thinking
of his relationship with Ursula, he added—*‘ but I don’t
know— ”’ ;

** Quite sudden, is it? Oh! ’’ said Brangwen, rather
baffled and annoyed.

‘*In one way,”’ replied Birkin, ‘‘ —not in another.”’

There was a moment’s pause, after which Brangwen said :

** Well, she pleases herself— ”’

** Oh yes! ”’ said Birkin, calmly.

A vibration came into Brangwen’s strong voice, as he
replied :

** Though I shouldn’t want her to be in too big a hurry,
either. It’s no good looking round afterwards, when it’s

too late.”’

** Oh, it need never be too late,’’ said Birkin, ** as far as
that goes.”’

** How do you mean ?”’ asked the father.

** If one repents being married, the marriage is at an
end,’’ said Birkin.

** You think so P”’

we Yes.’? i

** Ay, well that may be your way of looking at it.’’

Birkin, in silence, thought to himself: ** So it may. As
for your way of looking at it, William Brangwen, it needs
a little explaining.’

** IT suppose,’’ said Brangwen, ‘* you know what sort of
people we are? What sort of a bringing-up she’s had ?’’

*¢ ¢ She ’,”? thought Birkin to himself, remembering his
childhood’s corrections, ‘‘ is the cat’s mother.”’

** Do I know what sort of a bringing-up she’s had ?’’ he
said aloud.

TN. ae ee eee re ee a, SY ghee is
Dra AE sh aiceg ih EN Sp ha cc
RT toe ee Wate * + ont Pee hae
‘ ai! Ae

270 WOMEN IN LOVE

He seemed to annoy Brangwen intentionally. 3

** Well,”? he said, *‘ she’s had everything that’s right for
a girl to have—as far as possible, as far as we could give it
her,’’

‘© I’m sure she has,’’ said Birkin, which caused a perilous
full-stop. The father was becoming exasperated. There
was something naturally irritant to him in Birkin’s mere
presence.

** And I don’t want to see her going back on it all,”’ he
said, in a clanging voice.

** Why ?” said Birkin.

. This monosyllable exploded in Brangwen’s brain like a
shot.
‘‘ Why! I don’t believe in your new-fangled ways and

new-fangled ideas—in and out like a frog in a gallipot. It

would never do for me.”’

Birkin watched him with steady emotionless eyes. The
radical antagonism in the two men was rousing.

** Yes, but are my ways and ideas new-fangled ?” ddkcen
Birkin.

** Are they ?”’? Brangwen caught himself up. ‘* I’m not
speaking of you in particular,”’ he said. ‘‘ What I mean is
that my children have been brought up to think and do
according to the religion I was brought up in myself, and I
don’t want to see them going away from that.”’

There was a dangerous pause.

** And beyond that— ?’’ asked Birkin.

The father hesitated, he was in a nasty position.

** Eh? What do you mean? All I want to say is that
my daughter ’’—he tailed off into silence, overcome by
futility. He knew that in some way he was off the track.

** Of course,’’ said Birkin, ‘*‘ I don’t want to hurt any-
body or influence anybody. Ursula does exactly as she
pleases.”’

There was a complete silence, because of the utter failure
in mutual understanding. Birkin felt bored. Her father
was not a coherent human being, he was a roomful of old
echoes. The eyes of the younger man rested on the face of
the elder. Brangwen locked up, and saw Birkin looking at
him. His face was covered with inarticulate anger and
humiliation and sense of inferiority in strength.

‘* And as for beliefs, that’s one thing,”’ he said. ‘* But
I’d rather see my daughters dead to-morrow than that they

~ AO i a? ae oe i, “ ~~ Miss }
i og Meg toad ENE WA ers : rs
Lh I ik nish
mein Aah Peres eens E ¥ ¥
eae cH if ? P :

“MOORY( o) 271

should be at the beck and call of the first man that likes to
come and whistle for them.”’

A queer painful light came into Birkin’s eyes. _

** As to that,’’ he said, “I only know that it’s much
more likely that it’s I who am the beck and call of the
woman, than she at mine.”’ |

Again there was a pause. The father was somewhat be-
wildered.

**T know,”’ he said, *‘ she’ll please herseli—she always
has done. I’ve done my best for them, but that doesn’t
matter. They’ve got themselves to please, and if they can
help it they’ll please nobody but themselves. But she’s a
right to consider her mother, and me as well— ”’

Brangwen was thinking his own thoughts.

** And I tell you this much, I would rather bury them,
than see them getting into a lot of loose ways such as you
see everywhere nowadays. I’d rather bury them— ”’

** Yes but, you see,’’ said Birkin slowly, rather wearily,
bored again by this new turn, ‘** they won’t give either you
or me the chance to bury them, because they’re not to be |
buried.”’

Brangwen looked at him in a sudden flare of impotent
anger.

** Now, Mr Birkin,”’ he said, ** I don’t know what you’ve
come here for, and I don’t know what you’re asking for.
But my daughters are my daughters—and it’s my business
to look after them while I can.’’

Birkin’s brows knitted suddenly, his eyes concentrated in
mockery. But he remained perfectly stiff and still. There
was a pause.

** [’ve nothing against your marrying Ursula,’’ Brangwen
began at length. ‘* It’s got nothing to do with me, she’ll
do as she likes, me or no me.”’

Birkin turned away, looking out of the window and let-
ting go his consciousness. After all, what good was this?
It was hopeless to keep it up. He would sit on till Ursula
came home, then speak to her, then go away. He would
not accept trouble at the hands of her father. It was all
unnecessary, and he himself need not have provoked it.

The two men sat in complete silence, Birkin almost uncon-
scious of his own whereabouts. He had come to ask her to
marry him—well then, he would wait on, and ask her. As
for what she said, whether she accepted or not, he did not

OS OR ae _ OP eee) Ae eee ae

272 WOMEN IN LOVE

think about it. He would say what he had come to say,

and that was all he was conscious of. He accepted the com-
plete insignificance of this household, for him. But every-
thing now was as if fated. He could see one thing ahead,

and no more. From the rest, he was absolved entirely for —

the time being. It had to be left to fate and chance to
resolve the issues.

At length they heard the gate. They saw her coming up
the steps with a bundle of books under her arm. Her face
was bright and abstracted as usual, with the abstraction,
that look of being not quite there, not quite present to the
facts of reality, that galled her father so much. She had a
maddening faculty of assuming a light of her own, which
excluded the reality, and within which she looked radiant as
if in sunshine. -

They heard her go into the dining room, and drop her
armful of books on the table.

‘* Did you bring me that Girl’s Own?” cried Rosalind.

** Yes, I brought it. But 1 forgot which one it was you
wanted.”’

‘© You would,’ cried Rosalind angrily. ‘‘* It’s right for a
wonder.”’

Then they heard her say something in a lowered tone.

** Where ?”’ cried Ursula.

Again her sister’s voice was muffled.

Brangwen opened the door, and called, in his strong,
brazen voice :

** Ursula.”’

She appeared in a moment, wearing her hat.

‘* Oh how do you do! ” she cried, seeing Birkin, and all
dazzled as if taken by surprise. He wondered at her,
knowing she was aware of his presence. She had her queer,
radiant, breathless manner, as if confused by the actual
world, unreal to it, having a complete bright world of her
self alone.

‘* Have I interrupted a conversation ?”’ she asked.

‘* No, only a complete silence,’’ said Birkin.

‘© Oh,”’ said Ursula, vaguely, absent. Their presence was
not vital to her, she was withheld, she did not take them in.
It was a subtle insult that never failed to exasperate her
father.

‘‘ Mr Birkin came to speak to you, not to me,”’ said her
father.

Ree ee eek OW Ak Me Ore eee eS Fe re ee re oO rh
\4 * i

MOONY 273

“Oh, did he! ”? she exclaimed vaguely, as if it did not
concern her. ‘Then, recollecting herself, she turned to
him rather radiantly, but still quite superficially, and said :
*¢ Was it anything special P”’ .

** I hope so,”’ he said, ironically.

*¢ __ To propose to you, according to all accounts,” said
her father.

** Oh,”’ said Ursula.

‘¢ Oh,”? mocked her father, imitating her. ‘* Have you
nothing more to say ?”’

She winced as if violated.

‘** Did you really come to propose to me?” she asked of
Birkin, as if it were a joke.

“© Yes,”? he said. ‘** I suppose I came to propose.”” He
seemed to fight shy of the last word.

** Did you?’’ she cried, with her vague radiance. He
might have been saying anything whatsoever. She seemed
pleased.

“© Yes,’? he answered. ‘‘ I wanted to—I wanted you to
agree to marry me.”’

She looked at him. His eyes were flickering with mixed
lights, wanting something of her, yet not wanting it. She
shrank a little, as if she were exposed to his eyes, and as if it
were a pain to her. She darkened, her soul, clouded over,
she turned aside. She had been driven out of her own
radiant, single world. And she dreaded contact, it was
almost unnatural to her at these times.

** Yes,’’ she said vaguely, in a doubting, absent
voice. |

Birkin’s heart contracted swiftly, in a sudden fire of bit-
terness. It all meant nothing to her. He had been mis-
taken again. She was in some self-satisfied world of her
own. He and his hopes were accidentals, violations to her.
It drove her father to. a pitch of mad exasperation. He
had had to put up with this all his life, from her.

** Well, what do you say ?” he cried.

She winced. Then she glanced down at her father, half-
frightened, and she said :

** T didn’t speak, did I?’’ as if she were afraid she might
have committed herself.

‘* No,”’ said her father, exasperated. ‘* But you needn’t
look like an idiot. You’ve got your wits, haven’t you ?”’

She ebbed away in silent hostility.

S

274, - WOMEN IN. LOVE.

**'T’ve got my wits, what does that mean ?”? she repeated, i
in a sullen voice of antagonism. a
** You heard what was asked you, didn’t you?” cried bes

father in anger.

** Of course I heard.”’

** Well then, can’t you answer ?’’ thundered her father.

*¢ Why should I?”’ )

At the impertinence of this retort, he went stiff. But he
said nothing.

** No,”’ said Birkin, to help out the occasion, ‘* there’s
no need to answer at once. You can say when you
like.”’

Her eyes flashed with a powerful light.

** Why should I say anything?’’ she cried. ‘* You do
this off your own bat, it has nothing to do with me. Why
do you both want to bully me ?’’ |

** Bully you! Bully you! ” cried her father, in bitter,
rancorous anger. ‘* Bully you! Why, it’s a pity you
can’t be bullied into some sense and decency. Bully you!
You’ll see to that, you self-willed creature.”

She stood suspended in the middle of the room, her face
glimmering and dangerous. She was set in satisfied de-
fiance. Birkin looked up at her. He too was angry.

** But no-one is bullying you,”’’ he said, in a very soft
dangerous voice also.

** Oh yes,”’ she cried. ‘* You both want to force me into
something.”’

** That is an illusion of yours,’’ he said ironically.

** [llusion ! ’’ cried her father. ‘* A self-opinionated fool,
that’s what she is.”’

Birkin rose, saying :

** However, we’ll leave it for the time being.”’

And without another word, he walked out of the house.

** You fool! You fool! ’’ her father cried to her, with
extreme bitterness. She left the room, and went upstairs,
singing to herself. But she was terribly fluttered, as after
some dreadful fight. From her window, she could see
Birkin going up the road. He went in such a blithe drift
of rage, that her mind wondered over him. He was ridicu- ©
lous, but she was afraid of him. She was as if escaped from
some danger.

Her father sat below, powerless in humiliation and
chagrin. It was as if he were possessed with all the devils,

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MOONY | 275
after one of these unaccountable conflicts with Ursula. He
hated her as if his only reality were in hating her to the last
degree. He had all hell in his heart. But he went away,
to escape himself. He knew he must despair, yield, give »
in to despair, and have done.

- Ursula’s face closed, she completed herself against them
all. Recoiling upon herself, she became hard and self-com-
pleted, like a jewel. She was bright and invulnerable, quite
free and happy, perfectly liberated in her self-possession.
Her father had to learn not to see her blithe obliviousness,
or it would have sent him mad. She was so radiant with all
things, in her possession of perfect hostility.

She would go on now for days like this, in this bright
frank state of seemingly pure spontaneity, so essentially
oblivious of the existence of anything but herself, but so
ready and facile in her interest. Ah it was a bitter thing
for a man to be near her, and her father cursed his father-
hood. But he must learn not to see her, not to
know.

She was perfectly stable in resistance when she was in
this state : so bright and radiant and attractive in her pure
opposition, so very pure, and yet mistrusted by everybody,
disliked on every hand. It was her voice, curiously clear
and repellant, that gave her away. Only Gudrun was in
accord with her. It was at these times that the intimacy
between the two sisters was most complete, as if their in-
telligence were one. They felt a strong, bright bond of
understanding between them, surpassing everything else.
And during all these days of blind bright abstraction and
intimacy of his two daughters, the father seemed to breathe
an air of death, as if he were destroyed in his very being.
He was irritable to madness, he could not rest, his daughters
seemed to be destroying him. But he was inarticulate and
helpless against them. He was forced to breathe the air of
his own death. He cursed them in his soul, and only
wanted, that they should be removed from him.

They continued radiant in their easy female transcen-
dancy, beautiful to look at. They exchanged confidences,
they were intimate in their revelations to the last degree,
giving each other at last every secret. They withheld noth-
ing, they told everything, till they were over the border of
evil. And they armed each other with knowledge, they
extracted the subtlest flavours from the apple of know-

276 WOMEN IN LOVE
ledge. It was curious how their knowledge was comple-
mentary, that of each to that of the other. :

Ursula saw her men as sons, pitied their yearning and
admired their courage, and wondered over them as a mother
wonders over her child, with a certain delight in their
novelty. But to Gudrun, they were the opposite camp.
She feared them and despised them, and respected their
activities even overmuch.

** Of course,”’ she said easily, *‘ there is a quality of life
in Birkin which is quite remarkable. There is an extra-
ordinary rich spring of life in him, really amazing, the way
he can give himself to things. But there are so many things
in life that he simply doesn’t know. LEither he is not aware
of their existence at all, or he dismisses them as merely
negligible—things which are vital to the other person. Ina
way, he is not clever enough, he is too intense in spots.”’

** Yes,’’ cried Ursula, ‘* too much of a preacher. He is
really a priest.”’

** Exactly! He can’t hear what anybody else has to say
—he simply cannot hear. His own voice is so loud.”’

** Yes. He cries you down.’

‘* He cries you down,’’ repeated Gudrun. ‘* And by
mere force of violence. And of course it is hopeless. No-
body is convinced by violence. It makes talking to him
impossible—and living with him I should think would be
more than impossible.”’ |

** You don’t think one could live with him?’ asked
Ursula. |

*¢ I think it would be too wearing, too exhausting. One
would be shouted down every time, and rushed into his
way without any choice. He would want to control you
entirely. He cannot allow that there is any other mind
than his own. And then the real clumsiness of his mind is
its lack of self-criticism. No, I think it would be perfectly
intolerable.”’

‘© Yes,”? assented Ursula vaguely. She only half agreed
with Gudrun. ‘* The nuisance is,” she said, ‘** that one
would find almost any man intolerable after a fortnight.”

‘* It’s perfectly dreadful,” said Gudrun. ‘* But Birkin—
he is too positive. He couldn’t bear it if you called your
soul your own. Of him that is strictly true.”

‘¢ Yes,” said Ursula. ‘* You must have his soul.”’

‘¢ Exactly! And what can you conceive more deadly ?””

METRE gue ear Ngee aan ce ah ad Me
MOONY 277
This was all so true, that Ursula felt jarred to.the bottom of
her soul with ugly distaste.

She went on, with the discord jarring and jolting through
her, in the most barren of misery.

Then there started a revulsion from Gudrun. She finished
life off so thoroughly, she made things so ugly and so final.
As a matter of fact, even if it were as Gudrun said, about
Birkin, other things were true as well. But Gudrun would
draw two lines under him and cross him out like an account
that is settled. There he was, summed up, paid for, settled,
done with. And it was such a lie. This finality of Gud-
run’s, this dispatching of people and things in a sentence, it
was all such a lie. Ursula began to revolt from her sister.

One day as they were walking along the lane, they saw a
robin sitting on the top twig of a bush, singing shrilly.
The sisters stood to look at him. An ironical smile flickered
on Gudrun’s face.

** Doesn’t he feel important ?’? smiled Gudrun.

** Doesn’t he! *? exclaimed Ursula, with a little ironical
grimace. ‘‘ Isn’t he a little Lloyd George of the air! ”’

**Isn’t he! Little Lloyd George of the air! That’s
just what they are,’’ cried Gudrun in delight. Then for
days, Ursula saw the persistent, obtrusive birds as stout,
short politicians lifting up their voices from the platform,
little men who must make themselves heard at any cost.

But even from this there came the revulsion. Some
yellowhammers suddenly shot along the road in front of her.
And they looked to her so uncanny and inhuman, like flaring
yellow barbs shooting through the air on some weird, living
errand, that she said to herself : ** After all, it is impudence
to call them little Lloyd Georges. They are really unknown
to us, they are the unknown forces. It is impudence to look
at them as if they were the same as human beings. They
are of another world. How stupid anthropomorphism is!
Gudrun is really impudent, insolent, making herself the
measure of everything, making everything come down to
human standards. Rupert is quite right, human beings are
boring, painting the universe with their own image. The
universe is non-human, thank God.’? It seemed to her
irreverence, destructive of all true life, to make little Lloyd
Georges of the birds. It was such a lie towards the robins,
and such a defamation. Yet she had done it herself. But
under Gudrun’s influence : so she exonerated herself.

WORT tiny PCa
LW

a

278 WOMEN IN LOVE.

So she withdrew away from Gudrun and from that which —
she stood for, she turned in spirit towards Birkin again.
She had not seen him since the fiasco of his proposal. She
did not want to, because she did not want the question of
her acceptance thrust upon her. She knew what Birkin
meant when he asked her to marry him; vaguely, without
putting it into speech, she knew. She knew what kind of
love, what kind of surrender he wanted. And she was not
at all sure that this was the kind of love that she herself
wanted. She was not at all sure that it was this mutual
unison in separateness that she wanted. She wanted un-
speakable intimacies. She wanted to have him, utterly, fin-
ally to have him as her own, oh, so unspeakably, in inti-
macy. To drink him down—ah, like a life-draught. She
made great professions, to herself, of her willingness to warm
his foot-soles between her breasts, after the fashion of the
nauseous Meredith poem. But only on condition that he,
her lover, loved her absolutely, with complete self-abandon.
And subtly enough, she knew he would never abandon him-
self finally to her. He did not believe in final self-abandon-
ment. He said it openly. It was his challenge. She was
prepared to fight him for it. For she believed in an absolute
surrender to love. She believed that love far surpassed the
individual. He said the individual was more than love, or
than any relationship. For him, the bright, single soul
accepted love as one of its conditions, a condition of its own
equilibrium. She believed that love was everything. Man
must render himself up to her. He must be quaffed to the
dregs by her. Let him be her man utterly, and she in
return would be his humble slave—whether she wanted it or
not.

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CHAP: XX. GLADIATORIAL

AFTER the fiasco of the proposal, Birkin had hurried blindly
away from Beldover, in a whirl of fury. He felt he had
been a complete fool, that the whole scene had been a farce
of the first water. But that did not trouble him at all. He
was deeply, mockingly angry that Ursula persisted always in
this old cry : ‘* Why do you want to bully me?” and in her
bright, insolent abstraction. :

He went straight to Shortlands. There he found Gerald
standing with his back to the fire, in the library, as motion-
less as a man is, who is completely and emptily restless,
utterly hollow. He had done all the work he wanted to do
—and now there was nothing. He could go out in the car,
he could run to town. But he did not want to go out in the
ear, he did not want to run to town, he did not want to call
on the Thirlbys. He was suspended motionless, in an agony
of inertia, like a machine that is without power.

This was very bitter to Gerald, who had never known
what boredom was, who had gone from activity to activity,
never at a loss. Now, gradually, everything seemed to be
stopping in him. He did not want any more to do the
things that offered. Something dead within him just re-
fused to respond to any suggestion. He cast over in his
mind, what it would be possible to do, to save himself from
this misery of nothingness, relieve the stress of this hollow-
ness. And there were only three things left, that would
rouse him, make him live. One was to drink or smoke
hashish, the other was to be soothed by Birkin, and the third
was women. And there was no-one for the moment to drink
with. Nor was there a woman. And he knew Birkin was
out. So there was nothing to do but to bear the stress of
his own emptiness. |

When he saw Birkin his face lit up in a sudden, wonderful
smile.

** By God, Rupert,”’ he said, ** I’d just come to the con-
clusion that nothing in the world mattered except somebody
to take the edge off one’s being alone: the right some-
body.’’

The smile in his eyes was very astonishing, as he looked

279

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{ ty high ty Risen! 2 . ae ho ity teat 3 heal)
TRE Pn ket ate ee

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280 WOMEN IN LOVE
at the other man. It was the pure gleam of relief. His
face was pallid and even haggard.

_ The right woman, I suppose you mean,”’ said Birkin
spitefully.

** Of course, for choice. Failing that, an amusing man.”’

He laughed as he said it. Birkin sat down near the
fire.

** What were you doing ?’’ he asked.

‘I? Nothing. I’m in a bad way just now, everything’s
on edge, and I can neither work nor play. I don’t know
whether it’s a sign of old age, I’m sure.”’

** You mean you are bored ?”’

** Bored, I don’t know. I can’t apply myself. And I
feel the devil is either very present inside me, or dead.”’

Birkin glanced up and looked in his eyes.

** You should try hitting something,’’ he said.

Gerald smiled.

** Perhaps,’”’ he said. ‘*‘ So long as it was something
worth hitting.”’

** Quite ! ’’ said Birkin, in his soft voice. There was a
long pause during which each could feel the presence of the
other.

** One has to wait,’’ said Birkin.

** Ah God! Waiting! What are we waiting for ?’’

** Some old Johnny says there are three cures for ennui,
sleep, drink, and travel,’’ said Birkin.

** All cold eggs,’’ said Gerald. ‘* In sleep, you dream, in
drink you curse, and in travel you yell at a porter. No,
work and love are the two. When you’re not at work you
should be in love.’’

** Be it then,”’ said Birkin.

** Give me the object,’’ said Gerald. ‘* The possibilities
of love exhaust themselves.”’

** Do they? And then what?’’

** Then you die,”’ said Gerald.

** So you ought,”’ said Birkin.

**-T don’t see it,’’ replied Gerald. He took his hands out

of his trousers pockets, and reached for a cigarette. He was

tense and nervous. He lit the cigarette over a lamp, reach-
ing forward and drawing steadily. He was dressed for
dinner, as usual in the evening, although he was alone.

*¢ There’s a third one even to your two,”’ said Birkin.
** Work, love, and fighting. You forget the fight.”’

GLADIATORIAL 281

** I suppose I do,” said Gerald. ‘* Did you ever do any
boxing— ?’?

** No, I don’t think I did,”’ said Birkin.

** Ay— ” Gerald lifted his head and blew the smoke
slowly into the air.

** Why ?”’ said Birkin.

** Nothing. I thought we might have a round. It is
perhaps true, that I want something to hit. It’s a sugges-
tion.””

** So you think you might as well hit me ?’’ said Birkin.

**'You? Well—! Perhaps—! In a friendly kind of
way, of course.”’

** Quite ! *? said Birkin, bitingly.

Gerald stood leaning back against the mantel-piece. He
looked down at Birkin, and his eyes flashed with a sort of
terror like the eyes of a stallion, that are bloodshot and
overwrought, turned glancing backwards in a stiff terror.

** I feel that if I don’t watch myself, I shall find myself
doing something silly,’’ he said.

** Why not do it ?’’ said Birkin coldly.

Gerald listened with quick impatience. He kept glancing
down at Birkin, as if looking for something from the other
man.

*I used to do some Japanese wrestling,’’ said Birkin.
** A Jap lived in the same house with me in Heidelberg, and
he taught me a little. But I was never much good at it.”’

** You did! *’ exclaimed Gerald. ‘‘ That’s one of the
things I’ve never ever seen done. You mean jiu-jitsu, I
suppose ?”?

** Yes. But I am no good at those things—they don’t
interest me.”’

** They don’t? They do me. What’s the start?”

** [’7ll show you what I can, if you like,’’ said Birkin.

** You will??? A queer, smiling look tightened Gerald’s
face for a moment, as he said, ** Well, I’d like it very
much.”’

** Then we’ll try jiu-jitsu. Only you can’t do much in a
starched shirt.’’

“Then let us strip, and do it properly. Hold a
minute— * He rang the bell, and waited for the butler.

** Bring a couple of sandwiches and a syphon,’’ he said
to the man, “‘ and then don’t trouble me any more to-night
—or let anybody else.”’

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QUE SROO NEE END ORME
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eet yee

2830 WOMEN IN LOVE

The man went. Gerald turned to Birkin with his eyes _

lighted.

** And you used to wrestle with a Jap?’’ he said. ‘** Did

you strip ?”’
** Sometimes.’’
** You did! What was he like then, as a wrestler?’’

** Good, I believe. I am no judge. He was very quick ©

and slippery and full of electric fire. It is a remarkable
thing, what a curious sort of fluid force they seem to have
in them, those people—not like a human grip—like a
polyp— *’

Gerald nodded.

** I should i imagine so,” he said, ** to look at them. They
repel me, rather.’’

** Repel and attract, both. They are very repulsive
when they are cold, and they look grey. But when they are
hot and roused, there is a definite attraction—a curious kind
of full electric fluid—tike eels.’’

** Well—, yes—, probably.”

The man brought in the tray and set it down.

** Don’t come in any more,”’ said Gerald.

The door closed.

** Well then,’’ said Gerald; ‘* shall we strip and begin?
Will you have a drink first ?”’

_ ** No, I don’t want one.’’

** Neither do I.’

Gerald fastened the door and pushed the.furniture aside.
The room was large, there was plenty of space, it was

thickly carpeted. Then he quickly threw off his clothes, |

and waited for Birkin. The latter, white and thin, came
over to him. Birkin was more a presence than a visible
object ; Gerald was aware of him completely, but not really
visually. Whereas Gerald himself was concrete and notice-
able, a piece of pure final substance.

** Now,”’ said Birkin, ** I will show you what I learned,
and what I remember. You let me take you so—’’ And
his hands closed on the naked body of the other man. In

another moment, he had Gerald swung over lightly and

balanced against his knee, head downwards. Relaxed,
Gerald sprang to his feet with eyes glittering.

‘© That’s smart,’’ he said. ‘* Now try again.’

So the two men began to struggle together. whe were
very dissimilar. Birkin was tall and narrow, his bones were

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very thin and fine. Gerald was much heavier and more
plastic. His bones were strong and round, his limbs were
rounded, all his contours were beautifully and _ fully
moulded. He seemed to stand with a proper, rich weight
on the face of the earth, whilst Birkin seemed to have the
centre of gravitation in his own middle. And Gerald had
a rich, frictional kind of strength, rather mechanical, but
sudden and invincible, whereas Birkin was abstract as to be
almost intangible. ._He impinged invisibly upon the other
man, scarcely seeming to touch him, like a garment, and

then suddenly piercing im a tense fine grip that seemed to
penetrate into the very quick of Gerald’s being.

They stopped, they discussed methods, they practised
grips and throws, they became accustomed to each other, to
each other’s rhythm, they got a kind of mutual physical
understanding. And then again they had a real struggle.
They seemed to drive their white flesh deeper and deeper
against each other, as if they would break into a oneness.
Birkin had a great suhtle energy, that would press upon the
other man with an uncanny force, weigh him like a spell put
upon him. Then it would pass, and Gerald would heave
free, with white, heaving, dazzling movements.

So the two men entwined and wrestled with each other,
working nearer and nearer. Both were white and clear, but
Gerald flushed smart red where he was touched, and Birkin
remained white and tense. He seemed to penetrate into
Gerald’s more solid, more diffuse bulk, to interfuse his body
through the body of the other, as if to bring it subtly into
subjection, always seizing with some rapid necromantic
foreknowledge every motion of the other flesh,’ converting
and counteracting it, playing upon the limbs and trunk of
Gerald like some hard wind. It was as if Birkin’s whole
physical intelligence interpenetrated into Gerald’s body, as
if his fine, sublimated energy entered into the flesh of the
fuller man, like some potency, casting a fine net, a prison,
through the muscles into the very depths of Gerald’s
physical being.

So they wrestled swiftly, rapturously, intent and mindless
at last, two essential white figures working into a tighter
closer oneness of struggle, with a strange, octopus-like knot-
ting and flashing of limbs in the subdued light of the room;-
a tense white knot of flesh gripped in silence between the —
walls of old brown books. Now and again came a sharp

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‘ ¥ me i Phe A | Ache fi bales oe

284 WOMEN IN LOVE

gasp of breath, or a sound like a sigh, then the rapid thud-
ding of movement on the thickly-carpeted floor, then the
strange sound of flesh escaping under flesh. Often, in the
white interlaced knot of violent living being that swayed
silently, there was no head to be seen, only the swift, tight
limbs, the solid white backs, the physical junction of two
bodies clinched into oneness. Then would appear the
gleaming, ruffled head of Gerald, as the struggle changed,
then for a moment the dun-coloured, shadow-like head of the
other man would lift up from the conflict, the eyes wide and
dreadful and sightless.

At length Gerald lay back inert on the carpet, his breast
rising in great slow panting, whilst Birkin kneeled over him,
almost unconsicous. Birkin was much more exhausted.
He caught little, short breaths, he could scarcely breathe
any more. The earth seemed to tilt and sway, and a com-
plete darkness was coming over his mind. He did not know
what happened. He slid forward quite unconscious, over
' Gerald, and Gerald did not notice. Then he was half-
conscious again, aware only of the strange tilting and slid-
ing of the world.. The world was sliding, everything was
sliding off into the darkness. And he was sliding, endlessly,
endlessly away.

He came to consciousness again, hearing an immense
knocking outside. What could be happening, what was it,
the great hammer-stroke resounding through the house?
He did not know. And then it came to him that it was his
own heart beating. But that seemed impossible, the noise
was outside. No, it was inside himself, it was his own
heart. And the beating was painful, so strained, sur-
charged. He wondered if Gerald heard it. He did not
know whether he were standing or lying or falling. f

When he realised that he had fallen prostrate upon
Gerald’s body he wondered, he was surprised. But he sat
up, steadying himself with his hand and waiting for his
heart to become stiller and less painful. It hurt very
much, and took away his consciousness.

Gerald however was still less conscious than Birkin. They
waited dimly, in a sort of not-being, for many uncounted,
unknown minutes.

_ Of course— ”? panted Gerald, ‘* 1 didn’t have to be
rough—with you—I had to keep back—my force— ”’

Birkin heard the sound as if his own spirit stood behind

GLADIATORIAL | 285

him, outside him, and listened to it. His body was in a
trance of exhaustion, his spirit heard thinly. His body
could not answer. . Only he knew his heart was getting
quieter. He was divided entirely between his spirit, which
stood outside, and knew, and his body, that was a plung-
ing, unconscious stroke of blood.

**T could have thrown you—using violence— ’’ panted
Gerald. ‘‘ But you beat me right enough.”’

** Yes,’ said Birkin, hardening his throat and producing
the words in the tension there, *‘ you’re much stronger than
I—-you could beat me—easily.”’

Then he relaxed again to the terrible plunging of his heart
and his blood.

** It surprised me,’’ panted Gerald, ‘‘ what strength
you’ve got. Almost supernatural.”’

** For a moment,”’ said Birkin.

He still heard as if it were his own disembodied spirit
hearing, standing at some distance behind him. It drew
nearer however, his spirit. And the violent striking of
blood in his chest was sinking quieter, allowing his mind to
come back. He realised that he was leaning with all his
weight on the soft body of the other man. It startled him,
because he thought he had withdrawn. He recovered him-
self, and sat up. But he was still vague and unestab-
lished. He put out his hand to steady himself. It touched
the hand of Gerald, that was lying out on the floor. And
Gerald’s hand closed warm and sudden over Birkin’s, they
remained exhausted and breathless, the one hand clasped
closely over the other. It was Birkin whose hand, in swift
response, had closed in a strong, warm clasp. over the hand
of the other. Gerald’s clasp had been sudden and
momentaneous. 3

The normal consciousness however was returning, ebbing
back. Birkin could breathe almost naturally again.
Gerald’s hand slowly withdrew, Birkin slowly, dazedly rose
to his feet and went towards the table. He poured
out a whiskey and soda. Gerald also came for a

drink.

** It was a real set-to, wasn’t it?’? said Birkin, looking
at Gerald with darkened eyes.

** God, yes,’’ said Gerald. He looked at the delicate
body of the other man, and added: ** It wasn’t too much
for you, was it?’’

286

** No. One ought to wrestle and strive and be physie- a

ally close. It makes one sane.’’

** You do think so?’

*“T do. Don’t you?’’

** Yes,” said Gerald.

There were long spaces of. silence between their words.
The wrestling had some deep meaning to them—an un-
finished meaning.

** We are mentally, spiritually intimate, therefore we

should be more or less physically intimate too—it is more
whole.’

‘© Certainly it is,”? said Gerald. Then he laughed pleas-
antly, adding: ‘‘ It’s rather wonderful to me.’”’ He
stretched out his arms handsomely.

_ ** Yes,’? said Birkin. ‘* I don’t know why one should
have to justify oneself.’’

66 No.”?

The two men began to dress.

** 1 think also that you are beautiful,’’ said Birkin to
Gerald, ‘* and that is enjoyable too. One should enjoy
what is given.”’

** You think I am beautiful—how do you mean, physic-
ally ??? asked Gerald, his eyes glistening.

** Yes. You have a northern kind of beauty, like light
refracted from snow—and a beautiful, plastic form. Yes,

that is there to enjoy as well. We should enjoy every-—

thing.’’

Gerald laughed in his throat, and said :

** That’s certainly one way of looking at it. I can say
this much, I feel better. It has certainly helped me. Is
this the Bruderschatft you wanted ?’’

** Perhaps. Do you think this pledges anything ?’’

** IT don’t know,”’ laughed Gerald.

** At any rate, one feels freer and more open now—and —

that is what we want.’’

** Certainly,’’ said Gerald.

They drew to the fire, with the decanters and the glasses
and the food.

** I always eat a little before I go ‘to bed,’’ said Gerald.
** I sleep better.”’

** IT should not sleep so well,’’ said Birkin.

**“No? There you are, we are not alike. IT’ll put a
dressing-gown on.’’ Birkin remained alone, looking at the

GLADIATORIAL 287

fire. His mind had reverted to Ursula. She seemed to
return again into his consciousness. Gerald came down
wearing a gown of broad-barred, thick sa SSaURbi hi silk,
_ brilliant and striking.

** You are very fine,’’ said Birkin, looking at the full
robe.

*¢ It was a caftan in Bokhara,’’ said Gerald. ‘‘ I like
a

*¢ T like it too.’

Birkin was silent, thinking how scrupulous Gerald was in
his attire, how expensive too. He wore silk socks, and
studs of fine workmanship, and silk underclothing, and silk
braces. Curious! This was another of the differences be-
tween them. Birkin was careless and unimaginative about
his own appearance.

** Of course you,’’ said Gerald, as if he had been thinking ;
*‘ there’s something curious about you. You’re curi-
ously strong. One doesn’t expect it, it is rather
surprising.”’

Birkin laughed. He was looking at the handsome figure
of the other man, blond and comely in the rich robe, and
he was half thinking of the difference between it and him-
self—so different; as far, perhaps, apart as man from
woman, yet in another direction. But really it was Ursula,
it was the woman who was gaining ascendance over Birkin’s
being, at this moment. Gerald was becoming dim again,
lapsing out of him.

** Do you know,”’’ he said suddenly, ‘‘ I went and pro-
posed to Ursula Brangwen to-night, that she should marry
99

He saw the blank shining wonder come over Gerald’s
face.

—* ‘You did ?’’

** Yes. Almost formally—speaking first to her father, as
it should be, in the world—though that was accident—or
mischief.”’

Gerald only stared in wonder, as if he did not
grasp.

** You don’t mean to say that you seriously went and
asked her father to let you marry her ?’’

** Yes,” said Birkin, ‘‘ I did.”’

' ** What, had you spoken to her before about it,
then P”’

LMA . * ‘os y a” de ee CTA ee if Sag ein api a ~ mm pats vn it sR »
fT CBRN TES iT ESS eh AGREE MT eet gt KGD SEN All le ceo
Tron’ Whe. f r, ae eee’ 7 ee as

° ‘ 4 <j a: : COE af TY vient Ta

288 WOMEN IN LOVE

and ask her—and her father happened to come instead of
her—so I asked him first.’

** Tf you could have her??? concluded Gerald.

** Ye-es, that.”’

** And you didn’t speak to her???

** Yes. She came in afterwards. So it was put to her as
well.”” |

** It was! And what did she say then? You’re an en-
gaged man ?P’’

** No,—she only said she didn’t want to be bullied into
answering.”’

** She what ?”’

** Said she didn’t want to be bullied into answering.”

** * Said she didn’t want to be bullied into answering! ’
Why, what did she mean by that ?”?

Birkin raised his shoulders. ‘* Can’t say,’’ he answered.
** Didn’t want to be bothered just then, I suppose.”’

** But is this really so? And what did you do then?”

** IT walked out of the house and came here.’’

** You came straight here ?”’

66 Yes.’

Gerald stared in amazement and amusement. He could
not take it in. .

** But is this really true, as you say it now ?”’

** Word for word.”

Ab is t7?

He leaned back in his chair, filled with delight and
amusement. :

** Well, that’s good,’”’ he said. ‘* And so you came here
to wrestle with your good angel, did you?”

** Did I?” said Birkin.

** Well, it looks like it. Isn’t that what you did ?’’

Now Birkin could not follow Gerald’s meaning.

** And what’s going to happen ?’’ said Gerald. ‘* You’re
going to keep open the proposition, so to speak ?’’

** T suppose so. I vowed to myself I would see them all
to the devil. But I suppose I shall ask her again, in a
little while.”’

Gerald watched him steadily.

** So you’re fond of her then ?”’ he asked.

** T think—I love her,’’ said Birkin, his face going very
still and fixed.

4

** No, not a word. I suddenly thought I would go there iy

io be ee ee Te wae 2s Asares? @& Pi ALP a? EM AOS Tae CR eA oe ON
tet ear, & eA Er ET VE aah) hy Bath salt As, real
ene > toe ae PE igure WN 7 )

’ i ; AY

GLADIATORIAL 289
Gerald glistened for a moment with pleasure, as if it were

something done specially to please him. Then his face

assumed a fitting gravity, and he nodded his head slowly.

** You know,”’ he said, ‘* I always believed in love—true
love. But where does one find it nowadays ?’’

** T don’t know,”’ said Birkin.

** Very rarely,’’ said Gerald. Then, after a pause, ‘‘ I’ve
never felt it myself—not what I should call love. I’ve gone
after women—and been keen enough over some of them.
But I’ve never felt love. I don’t believe I’ve ever felt as
much love for a woman, as I have for you—not love. You
understand what I mean ?P’’

** Yes. I’m sure you’ve never loved a woman.”’

** You feel that, do you? And do you think I ever
shall? You understand what I mean?’’? He put his hand
to his breast, closing his fist there, as if he would draw
something out. ‘* I mean that—that I can’t express
what it is, but I know it.’’

** What is it, then ?’’ asked Birkin.

** You see, I can’t put it into words. I mean, at any
rate, something abiding, something that can’t change 6

His eyes were bright and puzzled.

** Now do you think I shall ever feel that for a woman ?”’
he said, anxiously.

Birkin looked at him, and shook his head.

** I don’t know,’’ he said. ‘* I could not say.’

Gerald had been on the qui vive, as awaiting “his fate.
Now he drew back in his chair.

** No,’’ he said, ** and neither do I, and neither do I.’’

a We are different, you and I,”’ said Birkin. ‘* I can’t
tell your iife.”’

** No,” said Gerald, ‘no more can I. But I tell you—
I begin to doubt it! ”’

** That you will ever love a woman ?’’

** Well—yes—what you would truly call love— ”

** You doubt it ?”’

** Well—I begin to.”’

There was a long pause.

** Life has all kinds of things,’’ said Birkin. ‘* There
isn’t only one road.”’

‘Yes, I believe that too. I Bileve it- And mind you,
I don’t care how it is with me—I don’t care how it is—so
long as I don’t feel— ’’ he paused, and a blank, barren

T 3

“ Well, gery it is, ‘fulfilled I don’t “use the si
_ words as you.”? ) ae
“* It is the same.” ’

CHAP: XXI. THRESHOLD

GUDRUN was away in London, having a little show of her
work, with a friend, and looking round, preparing for
flight from Beldover. Come what might she would be on
the wing in a very short time. She received a letter from
Winifred Crich, ornamented with drawings.

** Father also has been to London, to be examined by
the doctors. It made him very tired. They say he must
rest a very great deal, so he is mostly in bed. He brought
me a lovely tropical parrot in faiénce, of Dresden ware, also
a man ploughing, and two mice climbing up a stalk, also in
faiénce. The mice were Copenhagen ware. They are the
best, but mice don’t shine so much, otherwise they are
very good, their tails are slim and long. They all shine
nearly like glass. Of course it is the glaze, but I don’t like
it. Gerald likes the man ploughing the best, his trousers
are torn, he is ploughing with an ox, being I suppose a
German peasant. It is all grey and white, white shirt and
grey trousers, but very shiny and clean. Mr Birkin likes
the girl best, under the hawthorn blossom, with a lamb,
and with daffodils painted on her skirts, in the drawing
room. But that is silly, because the lamb is not a real
lamb, and she is silly too.

** Dear Miss Brangwen, are you coming back soon, you
are very much missed here. I enclose a drawing of father sit-
ting up in bed. He says he hopes you are not going to
forsake us. Oh dear Miss Brangwen, I am sure you won’t.
Do come back and draw the ferrets, they are the most
lovely noble darlings in the world. We might carve them
in holly-wood, playing against a background of green leaves.
Oh do let us, for they are most beautiful.

** Father says we might have a studio. Gerald says we
could easily have a beautiful one over the stables, it would
only need windows to be put in the slant of the roof, which
is a simple matter. Then you could stay here all day and
work, and we could live in the studio, like two real artists,
like the man in the picture in the hall, with the frying-pan
and the walls all covered with drawings. I long to be free,
to live the free life of an artist. Even Gerald told father

291

292 WOMEN IN LOVE
that only an artist is free, because he lives in a creative
world of his own,

Gudrun caught the drift of the family intentions, in this
letter. Gerald wanted her to be attached to the household
at Shortlands, he was using Winifred as his stalking-horse.
The father thought only of his child, he saw a rock of sal-
vation in Gudrun. And Gudrun admired him for his per-
spicacity. The child, moreover, was really exceptional.
Gudrun was quite content. She was quite willing, given a
studio, to spend her days at Shortlands. She disliked the
Grammar School already thoroughly, she wanted to be free.
If a studio were provided, she would be free to go on with
her work, she would await the turn of events with com-
plete serenity. And she was really interested in Winifred,
she would be quite glad to understand the girl.

So there was quite a little festivity on Winifred’s account,
the day Gudrun returned to Shortlands.

** You should make a bunch of flowers to give to Miss
Brangwen when she arrives,’’ Gerald said smiling to his
sister.

** Oh no,”’ cried Winifred, ‘‘ it’s silly.”’

** Not at all. It is a very charming and ordinary atten-
tion.”’

** Oh, it zs silly,’’ protested Winifred, with all the extreme
mauvaise honte of her years. Nevertheless, the idea
appealed to her. She wanted very much to carry it out.
She flitted round the green-houses and the conservatory
looking wistfully at the flowers on their stems. And the
more she looked, the more she longed to have a bunch of the
blossoms she saw, the more fascinated she became with her
little vision of ceremony, and the more consumedly shy and
self-conscious she grew, till she was almost beside herself.
She could not get the idea out of her mind. It was as if
some haunting challenge prompted her, and she had not
enough courage to take it up. So again she drifted into the

green-houses, looking at the lovely roses in their pots, and

at the virginal cyclamens, and at the mystic white clusters
of a creeper. The beauty, oh the beauty of them, and oh
the paradisal bliss, if she should have a perfect bouquet and
could give it to Gudrun the next day. Her passion and
her complete indecision almost made her ill.

At last she slid to her father’s side.

** Daddie— ”’ she said.

ane 4 :
ot eo oe eo

THRESHOLD 998

** What, my precious ?P”’

But she hung back, the tears almost coming to her eyes,
in her sensitive confusion. Her father looked at her, and
his heart ran hot with tenderness, an anguish of poignant
pve. |

** What do you want to say to me, my love ?”’

** Daddie— ! ”? her eyes smiled laconically—* isn’t it silly
if I give Miss Brangwen some flowers when she comes ?”’

The sick man looked at the bright, knowing eyes of his
child, and his heart burned with love.

** No, darling, that’s not silly. It’s what they do to
queens.”” | |

This was not very reassuring to Winifred. She half
suspected that queens in themselves were a silliness. Yet
she so wanted her little romantic occasion.

** Shall I then ?’’ she asked.

** Give Miss Brangwen some flowers? Do, Birdie. Tell
Wilson I say you are to have what you want.’’

The child smiled a small, subtle, unconscious smile to
herself, in anticipation of her way.

** But I won’t get them till to-morrow,”’ she said.

** Not till to-morrow, Birdie. Give me a kiss then— ”’

Winifred silently kissed the sick man, and drifted out of
the room. She again went the round of the green-houses
and the conservatory, informing the gardener, in her high,
peremptory, simple fashion, of what she wanted, telling him
all the blooms she had selected.

** What do you want these for??? Wilson asked.

** T want them,’’ she said. She wished servants did not
ask questions.

** Ay, you’ve said as much. But what do you want them
for, for decoration, or to send away, or what ?’’

‘** T want them for a presentation bouquet.”’

** A presentation bouquet! Who’s coming then ?—the
Duchess of Portland ?” ;

6 No.’?

** Oh, not her? Well you’ll have a rare poppy-show if
you put all the things you’ve mentioned into your bouquet.”’

_* Yes, I want a rare poppy-show.”’

** Youdo! Then there’s no more to be said.”’

The next day Winifred, in a dress of silvery velvet, and
holding a gaudy bunch of flowers in her hand, waited with
keen impatience in the schoolroom, looking down the drive

204 - WOMEN IN LOVE _

for Gudrun’s arrival. It was a wet morning. Under her
nose was the strange fragrance of hot-house flowers, the
bunch was like a little fire to her, she seemed to have a
strange new fire in her heart. This slight sense of romance
stirred her like an intoxicant.

At last she saw Gudrun coming, and she ran downstairs
to warn her father and Gerald. They, laughing at her
anxiety and gravity, came with her into the hall. The
man-servant came hastening to the door, and there he was,
relieving Gudrun of her umbrella, and then of her raincoat.
The welcoming party hung back till their visitor entered the __
hali. j

Gudrun was flushed with the rain, her hair was blown in
loose little curls, she was like a flower just opened in the
rain, the heart of the blossom just newly visible, seeming
to emit a warmth of retained sunshine. Gerald winced in ~
spirit, seeing her so beautiful and unknown. She was
wearing a soft blue dress, and her stockings were of dark
red.

Winifred advanced with odd, stately formality.

** We are so glad you’ve come back,”’ she said. ‘ These
are your flowers.’’ She presented the bouquet.

‘Mine! ’”? cried Gudrun. She was suspended for a
moment, then a vivid flush went over her, she was as if
blinded for a moment with a flame of pleasure. Then her
eyes, strange and flaming, lifted and looked at the father,
and at Gerald. And again Gerald shrank in spirit, as if it .
would be more than he could bear, as her hot, exposed eyes
rested on him. There was something so revealed, she was
revealed beyond bearing, to his eyes. He turned his face
aside. And he felt he would not be able to avert her. And
he writhed under the imprisonment.

Gudrun put her face into the flowers.

** But how beautiful they are! ’’ she said, in a muffled
voice. Then, with a strange, suddenly revealed passion,
she stooped and kissed Winifred.

Mr Crich went forward with his hand held out to her.

** I was afraid you were going to run away from us,”’ he
said, playfully.

Gudrun looked up at him with a luminous, roguish, un-
known face. |

** Really ! *? she replied. ‘* No, I didn’t want to stay in
London.”’ a)

ee ee ae ee

THRESHOLD 295.

Her voice seemed to imply that she was glad to get back
to Shortlands, her tone was warm and subtly caressing.

‘* That is a good thing,’’ smiled the father. ‘* You see
you are very welcome here among us.”’

Gudrun only looked into his face with dark-blue, warm,
shy eyes. She was unconsciously carried away by her own
power.

** And you look as if you came home in every possible
triumph,”’ Mr Crich continued, holding her hand.

** No,’’ she said, glowing strangely. ‘1 haven’t had
any triumph till I came here.”’

** Ah, come, come! We’re not going to hear any of those
tales. Haven’t we read notices in the newspaper, Gerald ?”’

** You came off pretty well,’’ said Gerald to her, shaking
hands. ‘* Did you sell anything ?’’

** No,”’ she said, ** not much.”’

** Just as well,’’ he said.

She wondered what he meant. But she was all aglow
with her reception, carried away by this little flattering
ceremonial on her behalf.

** Winifred,’’ said the father, ‘* have you a pair of shoes
for Miss Brangwen? You had better change at once— ”’

Gudrun went out with her bouquet in her hand.

** Quite a remarkable young woman,’’ said the father to
Gerald, when she had gone.

Yes, *? replied Gerald briefly, as if he did not like the
observation.

Mr Crich liked Gactini to sit with him for half an hour.
Usually he was ashy and wretched, with all the life gnawed
out of him. But as soon as he rallied, he liked to make be-
lieve that he was just as before, quite well and in the midst
of life—not of the outer world, but in the midst of a strong
essential life. And to this belief, Gudrun contributed per-
fectly. With her, he could get by stimulation those pre-
cious half-hours of strength and exaltation and pure free-
dom, when he seemed to live more than he had ever lived.

She came to him as he lay propped up in the library.
His face was like yellow wax, his eyes darkened, as it were
sightless. His black beard, now streaked with grey, seemed
to spring out of the waxy flesh of acorpse. Yet the atmos-
phere about him was energetic and playful. Gudrun sub-
scribed to this, perfectly. To her fancy, he was just an
ordinary man. Only his rather terrible appearance was

bh Ler Peay A Oe Ste ERA Bt te Te ew:

296 WOMEN IN LOVE

photographed upon her soul, away beneath her conscious-
ness. She knew that, in spite of his playfulness, his eyes
could not change from their darkened vacancy, they were
the eyes of a man who is dead.

** Ah, this is Miss Brangwen,’’ he said, suddenly rousing
as she entered, announced by the man-servant. ‘* Thomas,
put Miss Brangwen a chair here—that’s right.’? He looked
at her soft, fresh face with pleasure. It gave him the
illusion of life. ‘‘ Now, you will have a glass of sherry and
a little piece of cake. Thomas —— ”’

** No thank you,’’ said Gudrun. And as soon as she had
said it, her heart sank horribly. The sick man seemed to
fall into a gap of death, at her contradiction. She ought to
play up to him, not to contravene him. In an instant she
was smiling her rather roguish smile.

** IT don’t like sherry very much,” she said. ‘* But I like
almost anything else.’’

The sick man caught at this straw instantly.

** Not sherry! No! Something else! What then?
What is there, Thomas ?”’

** Port wine—curacao

** I would love some curacao— ”’ said Gudrun, looking at
the sick man confidingly.

** You would. Well then Thomas, curacao—and a little
_ cake, or a biscuit ?”?

** A biscuit,’? said Gudrun. She did not want anything,
but she was wise. :

66 Yes.’?

He waited till she was settled with her little glass and her
biscuit. Then he was satisfied.

** You have heard the plan,’’ he said with some excite-
ment, ‘* for a studio for Winifred, over the stables ?’’

** No! *? exclaimed Gudrun, in mock wonder.

**Oh!—I thought Winnie wrote it to you, in her
letter ! °’

** Oh—yes—of course. But I thought perhaps it was only
her own little idea— *’ Gudrun smiled subtly, indulgently.
The sick man smiled also, elated. -

**Oh no. It is a real project. There is a good room
under the roof of the stables—with sloping rafters. We had
thought of converting it into a studio.”’

** How very nice that would be! ”’ cried Gudrun, with
excited warmth, The thought of the rafters stirred her,

99

THRESHOLD 297

** You think it would? Well, it can be done.”’

** But how perfectly splendid for Winifred! Of course, it
is just what is needed, if she is to work at all seriously.
One must have one’s workshop, otherwise one never ceases
to be an amateur.”’

**Isthatso? Yes. Ofcourse, I should like you to share
it with Winifred.”’

** Thank you so much.’’

Gudrun knew all these things already, but she must look
shy and very grateful, as if overcome.

** Of course, what I should like best, would be if you
could give up your work at the Grammar School, and just
avail yourself of the studio, and work there—well, as much
or as little as you liked— ”’ !

He looked at Gudrun with dark, vacant eyes. She
looked back at him as if full of gratitude. These phrases of
a dying man were so complete and natural, coming like
echoes through his dead mouth.

** And as to your earnings—you don’t mind taking from
me what you have taken from the Education Committee, do
you? I don’t want you to be a loser.”’

** Oh,”’ said Gudrun, ** if I can have the studio and work
there, I can earn money enough, really I can.”’

** Well,”’ he said, pleased to be the benefactor, ‘* we can
see about all that. You wouldn’t mind spending your days
here ?”?

‘* If there were a studio to work in,’’ said Gudrun, ‘‘ I
could ask for nothing better.”’

** Is that so ?”’

He was really very pleased. But already he was getting
tired. She could see the grey, awful semi-consciousness of
mere pain and dissolution coming over him again, the tor-
ture coming into the vacancy of his darkened eyes. It was
not over yet, this process of death. She rose softly saying :

** Perhaps you will sleep. I must look for Winifred.’’

She went out, telling the nurse that she had left him. Day
by day the tissue of the sick man was further and further
reduced, nearer and nearer the process came, towards the
last knot which held the human being in its unity. But
this knot was hard and unrelaxed, the will of the dying man
never gave way. He might be dead in nine-tenths, yet the
remaining tenth remained unchanged, till it too was torn
apart, With his will he held the unit of himself firm, but

298 WOMEN IN LOVE

‘ the circle of his power was ever and ever reduced, it would — 4

be reduced to a point at last, then swept away.

To adhere to life, he must adhere to human relationships, ©
and he caught at every straw. Winifred, the butler, the

nurse, Gudrun, these were the people who meant all to
him, in these last resources. Gerald, in his father’s pre-
sence, stiffened with repulsion. It was so, to a less degree,
with all the other children except: Winifred. They could
not see anything but the death, when they looked at their

father. It was as if some palaketueninete: dislike overcame

them. They could not see the familiar face, hear the
familiar voice. They were overwhelmed by the antipathy
of visible and audible death. Gerald could not breathe in
his father’s presence. He must get out at once. And so,
in the same way, the father could not bear the presence of
his son. It sent a final irritation through the soul of the
dying man.

The studio was made ready, Gudrun and Winifred moved
in. They enjoyed so much the ordering and the appointing
of it. And now they need hardly be in the house at all.
They had their meals in the studio, they lived there safely.
For the house was becoming dreadful. There were two
nurses in white, flitting silently about, like heralds of death.
The father was confined to his bed, there was a come and go
of sotto-voce sisters and brothers and children.

Winifred was her father’s constant visitor. Every morn-
ing, after breakfast, she went into his room when he was
washed and propped up in bed, to spend half an hour with
him.

** Are you better, Daddie?’’ she asked him invariably.

And invariably he answered :

** Yes, I think I’m a little better, pet.”’

She held his hand in both her own, lovingly and protec-
tively. And this was very dear to him.

She ran in again as a rule at lunch time, to tell him the
course of events, and every evening, when the curtains were
drawn, and his room was cosy, she spent a long time with
him. Gudrun was gone home, Winifred was alone in the
house : she liked best to be with her father. They talked
and prattled at random, he always as if he were well, just
the same as when he was going about. So that Winifred,
with a child’s subtle instinct for avoiding the painful things,

behaved as if nothing serious was the matter, Instinctively,

a
i
+2
\g

pe ea a

le ee ey

ee:

ae

Ss

THRESHOLD 299

she withheld her attention, and was happy. Yet in her re-
moter soul, she knew as well as the adults knew : perhaps
better.

Her father was quite well in his make-belief with her.
But when she went away, he relapsed under the misery of
his dissolution. But still there were these bright moments,
though as his strength waned, his faculty for attention grew
weaker, and the nurse had to send Winifred away, to save
him from exhaustion.

He never admitted that he was going to die. He knew it
was so, he knew it was the end. Yet even to himself he did
not admit it. He hated the fact, mortally. His will was
rigid. He could not bear being overcome by death. For
him, there was no death. And yet, at times, he felt a great
need to cry out and to wail and complain. He would have
liked to cry aloud to Gerald, so that his son should be hor-
rified out of his composure. Gerald was _ instinctively
aware of this, and he recoiled, to avoid any such thing.
This uncleanness of death repelled him too much. One
should die quickly, like the Romans, one should be master
of one’s fate in dying as in living. He was convulsed in the
clasp of this death of his father’s, as in the coils of the great
serpent of Laocoén. The great serpent had got the father,
and the son was dragged into the embrace of horrifying
death along with him. He resisted always. And in some
strange way, he was a tower of strength to his father.

The last time the dying man asked to see Gudrun he was
grey with near death. Yet he must see someone, he must,
in the intervals of consciousness, catch into connection with
the living world, lest he should have to accept his own
situation. Fortunately he was most of his time dazed and
half gone. And he spent many hours dimly thinking of the
past, as it were, dimly re-living his old experiences. But
there were times even to the end when he was capable of
realising what was happening to him in the present, the
death that was on him. And these were the times when he
-ealled in outside help, no matter whose. For to
realise this death that he was dying was a death beyond
death, never to be borne. It was an admission never to
be made.

Gudrun was shocked by his appearance, and by the dark-
ened, almost disintegrated eyes, that still were unconquered
and firm.

Wy EA GUA BR ae oy eS aT oe ne oie ee LI Vi Me em te al
De RN He isda ak Ra al Nal ae AY,
Ten es i L4 mit

Ww

300 WOMEN IN LOVE

** Well,’? he said in his weakened voice, ‘* and how are
you and Winifred getting on ?’’

** Oh, very well indeed,’’ replied Gudrun.

There were slight dead gaps in the conversation, as if the
ideas called up were only elusive straws floating on the dark
chaos of the sick man’s dying.

** The studio answers all right ?”’ he said.

** Splendid. It couldn’t be more beautiful and perfect,”’
said Gudrun.

She waited for what he would say next.

“And you think Winifred has the makings of a
sculptor ?”’

It was strange how hollow the words were, meaningless.

**T’m sure she has. She will do good things one
day.”’

** Ah! Then her life won’t be altogether wasted, you
think ?’*

Gudrun was rather surprised.

** Sure it won’t ! ’’ she exclaimed softly.

** That’s right.””

Again Gudrun waited for what he would say.

** You find life pleasant, it is good to live, isn’t it ?*’? he
asked, with a pitiful faint smile that was almost too much
for Gudrun.

‘© Yes,’? she smiled—she would lie at random—* I get a
pretty good time I believe.”’

‘‘ That’s right. A happy nature is a great asset.”’

Again Gudrun smiled, though her soul was dry with re-
pulsion. Did one have to die like this—having the life
extracted forcibly from one, whilst one smiled and made
conversation to the end? Was there no other way? Must
one go through all the horror of this victory over death, the
triumph of the integral will, that would not be broken till
it disappeared utterly? One must, it was the only way.
She admired the self-possession and the control of the dying
man exceedingly. But she loathed the death itself. She
was glad the everyday world held good, and she need not
recognise anything beyond.

‘* You are quite all right here ?—nothing we can do for
you ?—nothing you find wrong in your position ?”

‘* Except that you are too good to me,”’ said Gudrun.

‘* Ah, well, the fault of that lies with yourself,”’ he said,
and he felt a little exultation, that he had made this speech.

THRESHOLD © 301

He was still so strong and living! But the nausea of death
began to creep back on him, in reaction.

Gudrun went away, back to Winifred. Mademoiselle had
left, Gudrun stayed a good deal at Shortlands, and a tutor
came in to carry on Winifred’s education. But he did not
live in the house, he was connected with the Grammar

| School.

One day, Gudrun was to drive with Winifred and Gerald
and Birkin to town, in the car. It was a dark, showery
day. Winifred and Gudrun were ready and waiting at the
door. Winifred was very quiet, but Gudrun had not
noticed. Suddenly the child asked, in a voice of unconcern :

**Do you think my father’s going to die, Miss
Brangwen ?”’

Gudrun started.

** I don’t know,”’ she replied.

** Don’t you truly ?”’

** Nobody knows for certain. He may die, of course.’’

The child pondered a few moments, then she asked :

** But do you think he will die ?”’

It was put almost like a question in geography or science,
insistent, as if she would force an admission from the adult. |
The watchful, slightly triumphant child was almost
diabolical. 7

** Do I think he will die?’’ repeated Gudrun. ‘* Yes, I
do.”’

But Winifred’s large eyes were fixed on her, and the girl
did not move.

** He is very ill,”’ said Gudrun.

A small smile came over Winifred’s face, subtle and scep-
tical. |

** I don’t believe he will,’’ the child asserted, mockingly,
and she moved away into the drive. Gudrun watched the
isolated figure, and her heart stood still. Winifred was
playing with a little rivulet of water, absorbedly as if noth-
ing had been said.

** I’ve made a proper dam,’’ she said, out of the moist
distance.

Gerald came to the door from out of the hall behind.

** It is just as well she doesn’t choose to believe it,’’ he
said.

_ Gudrun looked at him. Their eyes met; and they ex-
changed a sardonic understanding.

302 Mane a IN LOVE

** Just as well,’’ said Gudrun.

He looked at her again, and a fire flickered up in his eyes. 2
** Best to dance while Rome burns, since it must burn, ©

don’t you think ?’’ he said.

She was rather taken aback. But, gathering herself to-
gether, she replied :

** Oh—better dance than wail, certainly.”

** So I think.”’

And they both felt the subterranean desire to let go, to
fling away everything, and lapse into a sheer unrestraint,
brutal and licentious. A strange black passion surged up
pure in Gudrun. She felt strong. She felt her hands so
strong, as if she could tear the world asunder with them.

‘She remembered the abandonments of Roman licence, and
her heart grew hot. She knew she wanted this herself also
—or something, something equivalent. Ah, if that which
was unknown and suppressed in her were once let loose,
what an orgiastic and satisfying event it would be. And
she wanted it, she trembled slightly from the proximity of
the man, who stood just behind her, suggestive of the same
black licentiousness that rose in herself. She wanted it
with him, this unacknowledged frenzy. For a moment the
clear perception of this preoccupied her, distinct and per-
fect in its final reality. Then she shut it off completely,
saying :

** We might as well go down to the lodge after Winifred—
we can get in the car there.’

** So we can,”’ he rid going with her.

They found Winifred at the lodge admiring the litter of
pure-bred white puppies. The girl looked up, and there was
a rather ugly, unseeing cast in her eyes as she turned to
Gerald and Gudrun. She did not want to see them.

** Look! ”? she cried. ‘* Three new puppies! Marshall
says this one seems perfect. Isn’t it a sweetling? But it
isn’t so nice as its mother.’’ She turned to caress the fine
white bull-terrier bitch that stood uneasily near her.

** My dearest Lady Crich,’’ she said, ‘* you are beautiful

as an angel on earth. Angel—angel—don’ t you think she’s.

good enough and beautiful enough to go to heaven, Gudrun ?
They will be in heaven, won’t they—and especially my
darling Lady Crich! Mrs Marshall, I say! ”

** Yes, Miss Winifred ?”? said the woman, appearing at
the door.

ae ee an a

ee Sea ne ce

ae ee eer

ME iy pe UO = ee ot ee a ee re
Le Beta 14a HY re Rat ee
US SOAS ers mines ena

} "
apr yh

- THRESHOLD 303

** Oh do call this one Lady Winifred, if she turns out
perfect, will you? Do tell Marshall to call it Lady Wini-
fred.”’

** Pll tell him—but I’m afraid that’s a gentleman puppy,
Miss Winifred.”’

“Oh no!” There was the sound of a car. ‘* There’s
Rupert ! ’’ cried the child, and she ran to the gate.

Birkin, driving his car, pulled up outside the lodge gate.

** We’re ready! ’? cried Winifred. ‘* I want to sit in
front with you, Rupert. May I? ”’

** I’m afraid you’ll fidget about and fall out,’ he said.

** No I won’t.. I do want to sit in front next to you.
It makes my feet so lovely and warm, from the engines.”’

Birkin helped her up, amused at sending Gerald to sit by
Gudrun in the body of the car.

** Have you any news, Rupert ?’’ Gerald called, as they
rushed along the lanes.

** News ?”’ exclaimed Birkin.

** Yes.”? Gerald looked at Gudrun, who sat by his side,
and he said, his eyes narrowly laughing, *‘ I want to know
whether I ought to congratulate him, but I can’t get any-
thing definite out of him.”

Gudrun flushed deeply.

** Congratulate him on what ?’’ she asked.

** There was some mention of an engagement—at least,
he said something to me about it.”’

Gudrun flushed darkly.

** You mean with Ursula ?’’ she said, in challenge.

** Yes. That is so, isn’t it ?’’

** I don’t think there’s any engagement,’’ said Gudrun. ©
coldly.

** That so? Still no developments, Rupert ?”’ he called.

‘© Where? Matrimonial? No.”

** How’s that ?”’ called Gudrun.

Birkin glanced quickly round. There was irritation in
his eyes also.

** Why ?’”? he replied. ‘© What do you think of it,
Gudrun P”’

** Oh,” she cried, determined to fling her stone also into
the pool, since they had begun, ‘* I don’t think she wants
an engagement. Naturally, she’s a bird that. prefers the
bush.’’? Gudrun’s voice was clear and gong-like. It re-
minded Rupert of her father’s, so strong and vibrant.

&

304 WOMEN IN LOVE

** And I,’* said Birkin, his face playful but yet deter-
mined, **‘ I want a binding contract, and am not keen on
love, particularly free love.”’

They were both amused. Why this public avowal?
Gerald seemed suspended a moment, in amusement.

** Love isn’t good enough for you ?’’ he called.

** No! ”? shouted Birkin.

** Ha, well that’s being over-refined,’’ said Gerald, and
the car ran through the mud.

‘* What’s the matter, really ?’’ said Gerald, turning to
Gudrun.

This was an assumption of a sort of intimacy that irri-
tated Gudrun almost like an affront. It seemed to her that
Gerald was deliberately insulting her, and infringing on the
decent privacy of them all.

‘What is it??? she said, in her high, repellant voice.
*© Don’t ask me !—I know nothing about ultimate marriage,
I assure you : or even penultimate.”’

*‘ Only the ordinary unwarrantable brand!” replied
Gerald. ‘* Just so—same here. I am no expert on mar-
riage, and degrees of ultimateness. It seems to be a bee
that buzzes loudly in Rupert’s bonnet.”’

‘* Exactly! But that is his trouble, exactly! Instead of
wanting a woman for herself, he wants his ideas fulfilled.
Which, when it comes to actual practice, is not good
enough.”’

‘Oh no. Best go slap for what’s womanly in woman,
like a bull at a gate.’? Then he seemed to glimmer in him-
self. ‘* You think love is the ticket, do you?’’ he asked.

‘* Certainly, while it lasts—you only can’t insist on per-
manency,’? came Gudrun’s voice, strident above the noise.

‘* Marriage or no marriage, ultimate or penultimate or
just so-so >—take the love as you find it.”’

‘* As you please, or as you don’t please,’’ she echoed.
‘* Marriage is a social arrangement, I take it, and has noth-
ing to do with the question of love.”’

His eyes were flickering on her all the time. She felt as
is he were kissing her freely and malevolently. It made
the colour burn in her cheeks, but her heart was quite firm
and unfailing.

‘¢ You think Rupert is off his head a bit ?’’ Gerald asked.

Her eyes flashed with acknowledgment.

‘* As regards a woman, yes,” she said, “‘ I do. There is

THRESHOLD | 305

such a thing as two people being in love for the whole of
their lives—perhaps. But marriage is neither here nor
there, even then. If they are in love, well and good. If
not—why break eggs about it! ”’ .

** Yes,’? said Gerald. ‘* That’s how it strikes me. But
what about Rupert ?”’

** I can’t make out—neither can he nor anybody. He
seems to think that if you marry you can get through
marriage into a third heaven, or something—all very
vague.”” 3

** Very! And who wants a third heaven? As a matter
of fact, Rupert has a great yearning to be safe—to tie him-
self to the mast.”’

** Yes. It seems to me he’s mistaken there too,’’ said
Gudrun. ‘‘ I’m sure a mistress is more likely to be faith-
ful than a wife—just because she is her own mistress. No—
he says he believes that a man and wife can go further than
any other two beings—but where, is not explained. They
can know each other, heavenly and hellish, but particularly
hellish, so perfectly that they go beyond heaven and hell—
into—there it all breaks down—into nowhere.”’

** Into Paradise, he says,’’ laughed Gerald.

Gudrun shrugged her shoulders. ‘* Je m’en fiche of your
Paradise ! ”’ she said.

** Not being a Mohammedan,’’ said Gerald. Birkin sat
motionless, driving the car, quite unconscious of what they
said. And Gudrun, sitting immediately behind him, felt a
sort of ironic pleasure in thus exposing him.

** He says,”’ she added, with a grimace of irony, ‘* that
you can find an eternal equilibrium in marriage, if you
accept the unison, and still leave yourself separate, don’t
try to fuse.’’

** Doesn’t inspire me,”’ said Gerald.

** That’s just it,’? said Gudrun.

** I helieve in love, in a real abandon, if you’re capable of
it,’’ said Gerald.

** So do I,”’ said she.

or And so does Rupert, too—though he is always shout-
ing.’

** No,”’ said Gudrun. ‘*‘ He won’t abandon himself to
the other person. You can’t be sure of him. That’s the
trouble I think.”

** Yet he wants marriage! Marriage—et puis?”

U

_ somebody was threatening his n¢
eS Glaiterctee, “It began to rain. ac
; "stopped the car and got down to put up the h hood.

{ eat

CHAP: XXII. WOMAN TO WOMAN

THEY came to the town, and left Gerald at the railway
station. Gudrun and Winifred were to come to tea with
Birkin, who expected Ursula also. In the afternoon, how-
ever, the first person to turn up was Hermione. Birkin
was out, so she went in the drawing-room, looking at his
books and papers, and playing on the piano. Then Ursula
arrived. She was surprised, unpleasantly so, to see Her-
mione, of whom she had heard nothing for some time.

** It is a surprise to see you,”’ she said.

‘* Yes,’’ said Hermione—‘‘ I’ve been away at Aix— ”’

** Oh, for your health P”’

Vex.’
- The two women looked at each other. Ursula resented
Hermione’s long, grave, downward-looking face. There

_ was something of the stupidity and the unenlightened self-
esteem of a horse, in it. ‘* She’s got a horse-face,’’ Ursula
said to herself, ** she runs between blinkers.’’ It did seem
as if Hermione, like the moon, had only one side to her
penny. There was no obverse. She stared out all the time
on the narrow, but to her, complete world of the extant
consciousness. In the darkness, she did not exist. Like the
moon, one half of her was lost to life. Her self was all in her
head, she did not know what it was spontaneously to. run or
move, like a fish in the water, or a weasel on the grass.
She must always know.

But Ursula only suffered from Hermione’s cne-sidednand
She only felt Hermione’s cool evidence, which seemed to put
her down as nothing. Hermione, who brooded and brooded
till she was exhausted with the ache of her effort at con-
sciousness, spent and ashen in her body, who gained so
slowly and with such effort her final and barren conclusions
of knowledge, was apt, in the presence of other women,
whom she thought simply female, to wear the conclusions
of her bitter assurance like jewels which conferred on her an
unquestionable distinction, established her in a higher order
of life. She was apt, mentally, to condescend to women |
such as Ursula, whom she regarded as purely emotional.
- Poor Hermione, it was her one possession, this aching cer-
807

308 WOMEN IN tp

tainty of hers, it was her only justification. She must be

confident here, for God knows, she felt rejected and defi-
cient enough elsewhere. In the life of thought, of the spirit,
she was one of the elect. And she wanted to be universal.
But there was a devastating cynicism at the bottom of her.
She did not believe in her own universals—they were sham.
She did not believe in the inner life—it was a trick, not a
reality. She did not believe in the spiritual world—it was
an affectation. In the last resort, she believed in Mammon,
the flesh, and the devil—these at least were not sham. She
was a priestess without belief, without conviction, suckled
in a creed outworn, and condemned to the reiteration of

mysteries that were not divine to her. Yet there was no —

escape. She was a leaf upon a dying tree. What help was
there then, but to fight still for the old, withered truths, to
die for the old, outworn belief, to be a sacred and inviolate
priestess of desecrated mysteries? The old great truths had
been true. And she was a leaf of the old great tree of
knowledge that was withering now. To the old and last
truth then she must be faithful even though cynicism and
mockery took place at the bottom of her soul.

‘‘T am so glad to see you,’’ she said. to Ursula, in her
slow voice, that was like an incantation. ** You and
Rupert have become quite friends ?”’

** Oh yes,’’ said Ursula. ‘* He is always somewhere in
the background.”

Hermione paused before she answered. She saw per-
fectly well the other woman’s vaunt: it seemed truly
vulgar.

** Ts he??? she said slowly, and with perfect equanimity.
** And do you think you will marry ?”’

The question was so calm and mild, so simple and bare
and dispassionate that Ursula was somewhat taken aback,
rather attracted. It pleased her almost like a wickedness.
There was some delightful naked irony in Hermione.

** Well,’? replied Ursula, ‘* He wants to, awfully, but
I’m not so sure.”’

Hermione watched her with slow calm eyes. She noted
this new expression of vaunting. How she envied Ursula
a certain unconscious positivity ! even her vulgarity !

** Why aren’t you sure?’’ she asked, in her easy sing-
song. She was perfectly at her ease, perhaps even rather
happy in this conversation. ‘** You don’t really love him ?”’

-—

a

ty WOMAN TO WOMAN | 309

- Ursula flushed a little at the mild impertinence of this
question. And yet she could not definitely take offence.
Hermione seemed so calmly and sanely candid. After all,
it was rather great to be able to be so sane.

** He says it isn’t love he wants,’’ she replied.

*¢ What is it then??? Hermione was slow and level.

** He wants me really to accept him in marriage.”’

Hermione was silent for some time, watching Ursula with
slow, pensive eyes.

*‘ Does he?’? she said at length, without expression.
Then, rousing, ‘* And what is it you don’t want? You
don’t want marriage ?”’

** No—I don’t—not really. I don’t want to give the sort
of submission he insists on.. He wants me to give myself
up—and I simply don’t feel that I can do it.”’

Again there was a long pause, before Hermione replied :

** Not if you don’t want to.’’ Then again there was
silence. Hermione shuddered with a strange desire. Ah,
if only he had asked her to subserve him, to be his slave !
She shuddered with desire.

** You see I can’t— ”’

** But exactly in what does— ”’

They had both begun at once, they both stopped. Then
Hermione, assuming priority of speech, resumed as if
wearily :

** To what does he want you to submit ?”’

** He says he wants me to accept him non-emotionally,
and finally— Ireally don’t know what he means. He says
he wants the demon part of himself to be mated—physic-
ally—not the human being. You see he says one thing one
day, and another the next—and he always contradicts him-
self— *’

** And always thinks about himself, and his own dissatis-
faction,’’ said Hermione slowly.

A Yes, *? cried Ursula. ‘‘ As if there were no-one but
himself concerned. That makes it so impossible.’’

But immediately she began to retract.

** He insists on my accepting God knows what in him,’’
she resumed. ‘* He wants me to accept him as—as an
absolute— But it seems to me he doesn’t want to give
anything. He doesn’t want real warm intimacy—he won’t
have it—he rejects it. He won’t let me think, really, and
he won’t let me feel—he hates feelings.’’

310 WOMEN IN LOVE.

There was a long pause, bitter for Hermione. Ah, if only ©
he would have made this demand of her? Her he drove
into thought, drove inexorably into knowledge—and then
execrated her for it.

** He wants me to sink myself,’? Ursula resumed, ‘* not
to have any being of my own ug

** Then why doesn’t he marry an odalisk?’? said Her-
mione in her mild sing-song, ‘* if it is that he wants.’’ Her
long face looked sardonic and amused.

** Yes,’ said Ursula vaguely. After all, the tiresome
thing was, he did not want an odalisk, he did not want a
slave. Hermione would have been his slave—there was in
her a horrible desire to prostrate herself before a man—a
‘ man who worshipped her, however, and admitted her as the
supreme thing. -He did not want an odalisk. He wanted
a woman to take something from him, to give herself up so
much that she could take the last realities of him, the last
facts, the last physical facts, physical and unbearable.

And if she did, would he acknowledge her? Would he be
able to acknowledge her through everything, or would he
use her just as his instrument, use her for his own private
satisfaction, not admitting her? That was what the other
men had done. They had wanted their own show, and
they would not admit her, they turned all she was into
nothingness. Just as Hermione now betrayed herself as a
woman. Hermione was like a man, she believed only in
men’s things. She betrayed the woman in herself. And
Birkin, would he acknowledge, or would he deny her?

** Yes,’? said Hermione, as each woman came out of her
own separate reverie. ‘‘ It would be a mistake—I think it
would be a mistake— ”’

** To marry him ?”’ asked Ursula.

** Yes,’? said Hermione slowly—*S I think you need a man
—soldierly, strong-willed— ’? Hermione held out her hand
and clenched it with rhapsodic intensity. ‘‘ You should
have a man like the old heroes—you need to stand behind
him as he goes into battle, you need to see his strength,
and to hear his shout You need a man physically
strong, and virile in his will, not a sensitive man mn
_ There was a break, as if the pythoness had uttered the
oracle, and now the woman went on, in a rhapsody-wearied
voice : ** And you see, Rupert isn’t this, he isn’t. He is
frail in health and body, he needs great, great care. Then

s

WOMAN TO WOMAN ___38nt

he is so changeable and unsure of himself—it requires the
greatest patience and understanding to help him. And I
don’t think you are patient. You would have to be pre-
pared to suffer—dreadfully. I can’t tell you how much
suffering it would take to make him happy. He lives an
intensely spiritual life, at times—too, too wonderful. And
then come the reactions. I can’t speak of what I have been
through with him. We have been together so long, I really
do know him, I do know what he is. And I feel I must say
it; I feel it would be perfectly disastrous for you to marry |
him—for you even more than for him.’’ Hermione lapsed
into bitter reverie. ‘* He is so uncertain, so unstable—he
wearies, and then reacts. I couldn’t tell you what his re-
actions are. I couldn’t tell you the agony of them. That
which he affirms and loves one day—a little later he turns on
it in a fury of destruction. He is never constant, always
this awful, dreadful reaction. Always the quick change
from good to bad, bad to good. And nothing is so devas-
tating, nothing—— ”’

** Yes,”? said Ursula humbly, ‘‘ you must _ have
suffered.’’

An unearthly light came on Hermione’s face. She
clenched her hand like one inspired.

** And one must be willing to suffer—willing to suffer ps
him hourly, daily—if you are going to help him, if he is to
keep true to anything at all

** And I don’t want to suffer hourly and daily,’’ said
Ursula. ‘‘ I don’t, I should be ashamed. I think it is de-
grading not to be happy.’’

Hermione stopped and looked at her a long time.

** Do you P”’ she said at last. And this utterance seemed
to her a mark of Ursula’s far distance from herself. For
to Hermione suffering was the greatest reality, come what
might. Yet she too had a creed of happiness.

** Yes,’? she said. ‘* One should be happy—’’ But it
was a matter of will.

** Yes,”’ said Hermione, listlessly now, ‘* I can only feel
that it would be disastrous, disastrous—at least, to marry
in a hurry. Can’t you be together without marriage?
Can’t you go away and live somewhere without marriage ?
I do feel that marriage would be fatal, for both of you. I
think for you even more than for him—and I think of his
health——.

312 WOMEN IN LOVE.

** Of course,’’ said Ursula, *‘ I don’t care about marriage —
—it isn’t really important to me—it’s he who wants it.”?

** It is his idea for the moment,’’ said Hermione, with that
weary finality, and a sort of st jewnesse savait infallibility.

There was a pause. Then Ursula broke into faltering
challenge.

** You think I’m merely a physical woman, don’t you?”

** No indeed,’’? said Hermione. ‘* No, indeed! But I
think you are vital and young—it isn’t a question of years,
or even of experience—it is almost a question of race.
Rupert is race-old, he comes of an old race—and you seem
to me so young, you come of a young, inexperienced race.”’

**Do I! ”? said Ursula. ‘* But I think he is awfully
. young, on one side.”’

** Yes, perhaps—childish in many respects. Neverthe-
less "y

They both lapsed into silence. Ursula was filled with
deep resentment and a touch of hopelessness. ‘* It isn’t
true,’’ she said to herself, silently addressing her adver-
sary. ‘* Itisn’t true. And it is you who want a physically
strong, bullying man, not I. It is you who want an unsen-
sitive man, notI. You don’t know anything about Rupert,
not really, in spite of the years you have had with him..
You don’t give him a woman’s love, you give him an ideal
love, and that is why he reacts away from you. You
don’t know. You only know the dead things. Any kit-
chen maid would know something about him, you don’t
know. What do you think your knowledge is but dead
understanding, that doesn’t mean a thing. You are so
false, and untrue, how could you know anything? What
is the good of your talking about love—you untrue spectre
of a woman! How can you know anything, when you
don’t believe? You don’t believe in yourself and your
own womanhood, so what good is your conceited, shallow
cleverness— ! ”’

The two women sat on in antagonistic silence. Hermione
felt injured, that all her good intention, all her offering,
only left the other woman in vulgar antagonism. But
then, Ursula could not understand, never would understand,
could never be more than the usual jealous and unreasonable
female, with a good deal of powerful female emotion, female
attraction, and a fair amount of female understanding, but
no mind. Hermione had decided long ago that where there

WOMAN TO WOMAN 313

_ Was no mind, it was useless to appeal for reason—one had
merely to ignore the ignorant. And Rupert—he had now
reacted towards the strongly female, healthy, selfish woman
—it was his reaction for the time being—there was no help-
ing it all. It was all a foolish backward and forward, a
violent oscillation that would at length be too violent for
his coherency, and he would smash and be dead. There
was no saving him. This violent and directionless reaction
between animalism and spiritual truth would go on in him
_ till he tore himself in two between the opposite directions,
and disappeared meaninglessly out of life. It was no good
—he too was without unity, without mind, in the ultimate
stages of living ; not quite man enough to make a destiny for
a woman.

They sat on till Birkin came in and found them together.
He felt at once the antagonism in the atmosphere, some-
thing radical and insuperable, and he bit his lip. But he
affected a bluff manner.

** Hello, Hermione, are you back again? How do you
feel ?”’

** Oh, better. And how are you—you don’t look well—’’
| ** Oh !—I believe Gudrun and Winnie Crich are coming

in to tea. At least they said they were. We shall be a tea-
party. What train did you come by, Ursula ?’’

It was rather annoying to see him trying to placate both
women at once. Both women watched him, Hermione with
deep resentment and pity for him, Ursula very impatient.
He was nervous and apparently in quite good spirits, chat-
tering the conventional commonplaces. Ursula was.
amazed and indignant at the way he made small-talk; he
was adept as any fat in Christendom. She became quite
stiff, she would not answer. It all seemed to her so false
and so belittling. And still Gudrun did not appear.

** I think I shall go to Florence for the winter,’’ said
Hermione at length.

** Will you?’ he answered. ‘* But it is so cold there.”’

** Yes, but I shall stay with Palestra. It is quite com-
fortable.”’

** What takes you to Florence ?’’

** T don’t know,” said Hermione slowly. Then she looked
at him with her slow, heavy gaze. ‘‘ Barnes is starting his
school of zxsthetics, and Olandese is going to give a set of
discourses on the Italian national policy— ”’

314 WOMEN IN LOVE

** Both rubbish,”’ he said.

** No, I don’t think so,’’ said Hermione.

** Which do you admire, then ?”’

**T admire both. Barnes is a pioneer. And then I am
interested in Italy, in her coming to national conscious-
ness.”’

** I wish she’d come to something different from national
consciousness, then,”’ said Birkin; ‘‘ especially as it only
means a sort of commercial-industrial consciousness. I hate
Italy and her national rant. And I think Barnes is an
amateur.’’ .

Hermione was silent for some moments, in a state of hos-
tility. But yet, she had got Birkin back again into her
- world! How subtle her influence was, she seemed to start
his irritable attention into her direction exclusively, in one
minute. He was her creature.

** No,”’ she said, ‘* you are wrong.’? Then a sort of
tension came over her, she raised her face like the pythoness
inspired with oracles, and went on, in rhapsodic manner :
** Tl Sandro mi scrive che ha accolto il piu grande
entusiasmo, tutti i giovani, e fanciulle e ragazzi, sono
tutti *? She went on in Italian, as if, in thinking of

the Italians she thought in their language.

He listened with a shade of distaste to her rhapsody, then
he said : |

** For all that, I don’t like it. Their nationalism is just
industrialism—that and a shallow jealousy I detest so
much.’’ :

** T think you are wrong—lI think you are wrong— ” said
Hermione. ‘* It seems to me purely spontaneous and beau-
tiful, the modern Italian’s passion, for it is a passion, for
Italy, L’Italia— ”’

** Do you know Italy well??? Ursula asked of Hermione.
Hermione hated to be broken in upon in this manner. Yet
she answered mildly :

** Yes, pretty well. I spent several years of my
girlhood there, with my mother. My mother died in
Florence.”’

66é Oh.”’’

There was a pause, painful to Ursula and to Birkin. Her-
mione however seemed abstracted and calm. Birkin was
white, his eyes glowed as if he were in a fever, he was far too
over-wrought. How Ursula suffered in this tense atmos-

WOMAN TO WOMAN 315

phere of strained wills! Her head seemed bound round by
iron bands. |

Birkin rang the bell for tea. They could not wait for
Gudrun any longer. When the door was opened, the cat
walked in. :

** Micio! Micio! ’’ called Hermione, in her slow, deliber-
ate sing-song. The young cat turned to look at her, then,
with his slow and stately walk he advanced to her side.

** Vieni—vieni qua,’’ Hermione was saying, in her strange
caressive, protective voice, as if she were always the elder,
the mother superior. ‘* Vieni dire Buon’ Giorno alla zia.
Mi ricorde, mi ricorde bene—non é vero, piccolo? EK vero
che mi ricordi? E vero?’? And slowly she rubbed his
head, slowly and with ironic indifference.

** Does he understand Italian?’’ said Ursula, who knew
nothing of the language.

** Yes,’? said Hermione at length. ‘* His mother was
Italian. She was born in my waste-paper basket in Flor-
ence, on the morning of Rupert’s birthday. She was his
birthday present.’’

Tea was brought in. Birkin poured out for them. It
was strange how inviolable was the intimacy which existed
between. him and Hermione. Ursula felt that she was an
outsider. The very tea-cups and the old silver was a bond
between Hermione and Birkin. It seemed to belong to an
old, past world which they had inhabited together, and in
which Ursula was a foreigner. She was almost a parvenue
in their old cultured milieu. Her convention was not their
convention, their standards were not her standards. But
theirs were established, they had the sanction and the grace
of age. He and she together, Hermione and Birkin, were
people of the same old tradition, the same withered deaden-
ing culture. And she, Ursula, was an intruder. So they
always made her feel.

Hermione poured a little cream into asaucer. The simple
way she assumed her rights in Birkin’s room maddened and
discouraged Ursula. There was a fatality about it, as if it
were bound to be. Hermione lifted the cat and put the
cream before him. He planted his two paws on the edge of
the table and bent his gracious young head to drink.

** Siccuro che capisce italiano,’? sang Hermione, ‘* non
Vavra dimenticato, la lingua della Mamma.”’

She lifted the cat’s head with her long, slow, white fin-

316 WOMEN IN LOVE

gers, not letting him drink, holding him in her power. It
was always the same, this joy in power she manifested,
peculiarly in power over any male being. He blinked for-
bearingly, with a male, bored expression, licking his whis- —
kers. Hermione laughed in her short, grunting fashion.

** Ecco, il bravo regazzo, come é superbo, questo ! ”

She made a vivid picture, so calm and strange with the
cat. She had a true static impressiveness, she was a social
artist in some ways.

The cat refused to look at her, indifferently avoided her
fingers, and began to drink again, his nose down to the
cream, perfectly baleen as he lapped with his odd little
click.

** It’s bad for him, teaching him to eat at table,” said
Birkin.

** Yes,’’ said Hermione, easily ncaa:

Then, looking down at the cat, she resumed her pe
mocking, humorous sing-song.

‘* Ti imparano fare brutte cose, brutte cose

She lifted the Mino’s white chin on her fore-finger, slowly.
The young cat looked round with a supremely forbearing
air, avoided seeing anything, withdrew his chin, and began
to wash his face with his paw. Hermione grunted her
laughter, pleased.

** Bel giovanotto— ”’ she said.

The cat reached forward again and put his fine white paw
on the edge of the saucer. Hermione lifted it down with
delicate slowness. This deliberate, delicate carefulness of
movement reminded Ursula of Gudrun.

** No! Non é permesso di mettere il zampino nel ton-
dinetto. Non piace al babbo. Un signor gatto cosi sel-
vatico— ! ”’

And she kept her finger on the softly planted paw of the.
eat, and her voice had the same whimsical, humorous note
of bullying.

Ursula had her nose out of joint. She wanted to go away
now. It all seemed no good. Hermione was established
for ever, she herself was ephemeral and had not yet even
arrived.

** T will go now,’’ she said suddenly.

Birkin looked at her almost in fear—he so dreaded her
anger. ‘© But there is no need for such hurry,”’ he said.

‘6 Yes,” she answered. ‘‘ I will go.’’ And turning to

99

: : a Ny peeve :
or ie a hs :

WOMAN TO WOMAN 317

Hermione, before there was time to say any more, she held
out her hand and said ‘* Good-bye.’’

** Good-bye— ”? sang Hermione, detaining the hand.
“ Must you really go now?’’

** Yes, I think I’ll go,’’ said Ursula, her face set, and
averted from Hermione’s eyes.

** You think you will |

But Ursula had got her hand free. She turned to Birkin
with a quick, almost jeering : ‘‘ Good-bye,’’ and she was
opening the door before he had time to do it for her.

When she got outside the house she ran down the road
in fury and agitation. It was strange, the unreasoning rage
and violence Hermione roused in her, by her very presence.
Ursula knew she gave herself away to the other woman, she
knew she looked ill-bred, uncouth, exaggerated. But she
did not care. She only ran up the road, lest she should go
back and jeer in the faces of the two she had left behind
For they outraged her.

CHAP: XXIII. EXCURSE

Next day Birkin sought Ursula out. It happened to be
the half-day at the Grammar School. He appeared to-
wards the end of the morning, and asked her, would she
drive with him in the afternoon. She consented. But her
face was closed and unresponding, and his heart sank.

The afternoon was fine and dim. He was driving the
motor-car, and she sat beside him. But still her face was
closed against him, unresponding. When she became like
this, like a wall against him, his heart contracted.

His life now seemed so reduced, that he hardly cared any
more. At moments it seemed to him he did not care a straw
whether Ursula or Hermione or anybody else existed or did
not exist. Why bother! Why strive for a coherent, satis-
fied life? Why not drift on in a series of accidents—like a
picaresque novel? Why not? Why bother about human
relationships? ‘Why take them seriously—male or female?
Why form any serious connections at all? Why not be
casual, drifting along, taking all for what it was
worth P

And yet, still, he was damned and doomed to the old
effort at serious living. :

** Look,’’ he said, ** what I bought.’ The car was run-
ning along a broad white road, between autumn trees.

He gave her a little bit of serewed-up paper. She took it
_ and opened it.

** How lovely,’’ she cried.

She examined the gift.

** How perfectly lovely ! ’’ she eed again. ‘* But why
do you give them me?’’? She put the question offensively.

His face flickered with bored irritation. He shrugged his
shoulders slightly.

** I wanted to,” he said, coolly.

** But why? Why should you?”’

** Am I called on to find reasons ?’’ he asked.

There was a silence, whilst she examined the rings that
had been screwed up in the paper.

** T think they are beautiful,’’ she said, ‘* especially this.
This is wonderful—- ’”

318

SIR Sn a he Ne ame dee ty OTT Vie he NE rey eet OM rae ee UAE am
eS Oe haw cae re? a PER vane ’ ; o> yore

EXCURSE 319

It was a round opal, red and fiery, set in a circle of tiny
rubies. :

** You like that best ?’’ he said.

** I think I do.”’

** J like the sapphire,”’ he said.

oa ps ft”

It was a rose-shaped, beautiful sapphire, with small bril-
liants.

** Yes,’’ she said, ‘* it is lovely.’’ She held it in the light.
** Yes, perhaps it is the best— ”’

** The blue— ”’ he said.

** Yes, wonderful— ”*

He suddenly swung the car out of the way of.a farm-cart.
It tilted on the bank. He was a careless driver, yet very
quick. But Ursula was frightened. There was always that
something regardless in him which terrified her. She sud-
denly felt he might kill her, by making some dreadful acci-
dent with the motor-car. For a moment she was stony
with fear. ;

**Isn’t it rather dangerous, the way you drive?’’ she
asked him.

** No, it isn’t dangerous,’’ he said. And then, after a
pause : ** Don’t you like the yellow ring at all ?”’

It was a squarish topaz set in a frame of steel, or some
other similar mineral, finely wrought.

** Yes,”’ she said, ‘* I do like it. But why did you buy
these rings P”’

**T wanted them. They are second-hand.’’

** You bought them for yourself ?”’

** No. Rings look wrong on my hands.’’

** Why did you buy them then ?’’

** IT bought them to give to you.”

** But why? Surely you ought to give them to Her-
mione! You belong to her.’’

He did not answer. She remained with the jewels shut
in her hand. She wanted to try them on her fingers, but
something in her would not let her. And moreover, she was
afraid her hands were too large, she shrank from the morti-
fication of a failure to put them on any but her little finger.
They travelled in silence through the empty lanes.

Driving in a motor-car excited her, she forgot his pre-
sence even.

** Where are we ?’’ she asked suddenly.

320 WOMEN IN LOVE ©

** Not far from Worksop.’’

** And where are we going ?”’ a

** Anywhere.”’

It was the answer she liked.

She opened her hand to look at the rings. They gave her
such pleasure, as they lay, the three circles, with their knot-
ted jewels, entangled in her palm. She would have to try
them on. She did so secretly, unwilling to let him see, so
that he should not know her finger was too large for them.
But he saw nevertheless. He always saw, if she wanted
him not to. It was another of his hateful, watchful char-
acteristics. |

Only the opal, with its thin wire loop, would go on her
ring finger. And she was superstitious. No, there was ill- —
portent enough, she would not accept this ring from him in
pledge.

** Look,’’ she said, putting forward her hand, that was
half-closed and shrinking. ‘* The others don’t fit me.’’

He looked at the red-glinting, soft stone, on her over-
sensitive skin.

** Yes,’’ he said.

** But opals are unlucky, aren’t they ?’’ she said wistfully.

** No. I prefer unlucky things. Luck is vulgar. Who
wants what luck would bring? I don’t.’’

** But why ?’’ she laughed.

And, consumed with a desire to see how the other rings
would look on her hand, she put them on her little finger.

** They can be made a little bigger,’’ he said.

** Yes,’’ she replied, doubtfully. And she sighed. She
knew that, in accepting the rings, she was accepting a
pledge. Yet fate seemed more than herself. She looked
again at the jewels. They were very beautiful to her eyes—
not as ornament, or wealth, but as tiny fragments of love-
liness.

** I’m glad you bought them,”’ she said, putting her hand,
half unwillingly, gently on his arm.

He smiled, slightly. He wanted her to come to him.
But he was angry at the bottom of his soul, and indifferent.
He knew she had a passion for him, really. But it was not
finally interesting. There were depths of passion when one
became impersonal and indifferent, unemotional. Whereas
Ursula was still at the emotional personal level—always so
abominably personal. He had taken her as he had never

—— SS

EXCUUs Es 321

been taken himself. He had taken her at the roots of her

darkness and shame—like a demon, laughing over the foun-
tain of mystic corruption which was one of the sources of
her being, laughing, shrugging, accepting, accepting finally.
As for her, when would she so much go beyond herself as to
accept him at the quick of death? |

She now became quite happy. The motor-car ran on, the
afternoon was soft and dim. She talked with lively interest,
analysing people and their motives—Gudrun, Gerald. He
answered vaguely. He was not very much interested any
more in personalities and in people—people were all
different, but they were all enclosed nowadays in a
definite limitation, he said; there were only about two
great ideas, two great streams of activity remaining, with
various forms of reaction therefrom. The reactions were all
varied in various people, but they followed a few great laws,
and intrinsically there was no difference. They acted and
reacted involuntarily according to a few great laws, and
once the laws, the great principles, were known, people
were no longer mystically interesting. They were all essen-
tially alike, the differences were only variations on a theme.
None of them transcended the given terms.

Ursula did not agree—people were still an adventure to
her—but—perhaps not as much as she tried to persuade
herself. Perhaps there was something mechanical, now, in
her interest. Perhaps also her interest was destructive, her
analysing was a real tearing to pieces. There was an under-
space in her where she did not care for people and their
idiosyncracies, even to destroy them. She seemed to touch
for a moment this undersilence in herself, she became still,
and she turned for a moment purely to Birkin.

** Won’t it be lovely to go home in the dark ?”’ she said.
** We might have tea rather late—shall we ?—and have high
tea? Wouldn’t that be rather nice ?’’

**I promised to be at Shortlands for dinner,’’ he
said.

** But—it doesn’t matter—you can go to-morrow— ”’

** Hermione is there,’’ he said, in rather an uneasy voice.
** She is going away in two days. I suppose I ought to say
good-bye to her. I shall never see her again.’’

Ursula drew away, closed in a violent silence. He knitted
his brows, and his eyes began to sparkle again in
anger.

x

22 § #$.WOMENIN LOVE |

** You don’t mind, do you?’’ he asked irritably.

** No, I don’t care. Why should I? Why should I |
mind??? Her tone was jeering and offensive.

** That’s what I ask myself,’? he said; ** why should you
mind! But you seem to.’? His brows were tense with
violent irritation. ae

** I assure you I don’t, I don’t mind in the least. Go
where you belong—it’s what I want you to do.”’

** Ah you fool! ”? he cried; ** with your ‘ go where you
belong.’ It’s finished between Hermione and me. She
means much more to you, if it comes to that, than she does
tome. For you can only revolt in pure reaction from her—
and to be her opposite is to be her counterpart.”’

** Ah, opposite! ’’ cried Ursula. ‘‘ I know your dodges.
1 am not taken in by your word-twisting. You belong to
Hermione and her dead show. Well, if you do, youdo. I
don’t blame you. But then you’ve nothing to do with
me.”’ |

In his inflamed, overwrought exasperation, he stopped the
car, and they sat there, in the middle of the country lane,
to have it out. It was a crisis of war between them, so
they did not see the ridiculousness of their situation.

‘* If you weren’t a fool, if only you weren’t a fool,”’ he
cried in bitter despair, ‘* you’d see that one could be decent, |
even when one has been wrong. I was wrong to go on all
those years with Hermione—it was a deathly process. But
after all, one can have a little human decency. But no,
you would tear my soul out with your jealousy at the very
mention of Hermione’s name.”’

** T jealous! I—jealous! You are mistaken if you think
that. I’m not jealous in the least of Hermione, she is
nothing to me, not that! ’’ And Ursula snapped her fin-
gers. ‘* No, it’s you who are a liar. It’s you who must
return, like a dog to his vomit. It is what Hermione stands
for that I hate. I hate it. It is lies, it is false, it is death.
But you want it, you can’t help it, you.can’t help yourself.
You belong to that old, deathly way of living—then go
back to it. But don’t come to me, for I’ve nothing to do
with it.”’

And in the stress of her violent emotion, she got down
from the car and went to the hedgerow, picking uncon-
sciously some flesh-pink spindleberries, some of which were
burst, showing their orange seeds.

<<
rr °

EXCURSE 823

** Ah, you are a fool,”’ he cried, bitterly, with some con-
tempt.

*° Yes, 1am. Iama fool. And thank God for it. I’m
too big a fool to swallow your cleverness. God be praised.
You go to your women—go to them—they are your sort—
you’ve always had a string of them trailing after you—and
you always will. Go to your spiritual brides—but don’t
come to me as well, because I’m not having any, thank
you. You’re not satisfied, are you? Your spiritual brides
can’t give you what you want, they aren’t common and
fleshy enough for you, aren’t they? So you come to me,
and keep them in the background! You will marry me for
daily use. But you’ll keep yourself well provided with
spiritual brides in the background. I know your dirty
little game.’? Suddenly a flame ran over her, and she
stamped her foot madly on the road, and he winced, afraid
that she would strike him. ‘* And IJ, I’m not spiritual enough,
I’m not as spiritual as that Hermione—!’’ Her brows
knitted, her eyes blazed like a tiger’s. ‘* Then go to her,
that’s all I say, go to her, go. Ha, she spiritual—spiritual,
she! A dirty materialist as she is. She spiritual? What
does she care for, what is her spirituality? What is it?’’
Her fury seemed to blaze out and burn his face. He shrank
a little. ‘* I tell you it’s dirt, dirt, and nothing but dirt.
And it’s dirt you want, you crave for it. Spiritual! Is
that spiritual, her bullying, her conceit, her sordid material-
ism? She’s a fishwife, a fishwife, she is such a materialist.
And all so sordid. What does she work out to, in the end,
with all her social passion, as you call it. Social passion—
what social passion has she?—show it me !—where is it?
She wants petty, immediate power, she wants the illusion
that she is a great woman, that is all. In her soul she’s a
devilish unbeliever, common as dirt. That’s what she is at
the bottom. And ali the rest is pretence—but you love it.
You love the sham spirituality, it’s your food. And why?
Because of the dirt underneath. Do you think I don’t know
the foulness of your sex life—and her’s?—I do. And it’s
that foulness you want, you liar. Then have it, have it.
You’re such a liar.”’ |

She turned away, spasmodically tearing the twigs of
spindleberry from the hedge, and fastening them, with
vibrating fingers, in the bosom of her coat.

He stood watching in silence. A wonderful tenderness

_ \ Ne ay TAS Ba z Pr Fed ly A A fon ‘had Stray ete ay
pains pees: ian We ar ex soles Ebi,
TAY " 2 be ‘2 “dail

-824 WOMEN IN LOVE

burned in him, at the sight of her quivering, so sensitive
fingers : and at the same time he was full of rage and cal-
lousness.

** This is a degrading exhibition,’’ he said coolly.

** Yes, degrading indeed,” she said. ‘* But more to me
than to you.”’

** Since you choose to degrade yourself,’’ he said. Again
the flash came over her face, the yellow lights concentrated
in her eyes.

** You! ?? she cried. ‘* You! You truth-lover! You
purity-monger! It stinks, your truth and your purity. It
stinks of the offal you feed on, you scavenger dog, you eater
of corpses. You are foul, fowl—and you must know it.
Your purity, your candour, your goodness—yes, thank you,
we’ve had some. What you are is a foul, deathly thing,
obscene, that’s what you are, obscene and perverse. You,
and love! You may well say, you don’t want love. No,
you want yourself, and dirt, and death—that’s what you
want. You are so perverse, so death-eating. And then—”’

** There’s a bicycle coming,’ he said, writhing under her
loud denunciation.

She glanced down the road.

_ “JT don’t care,’’ she cried.

Nevertheless she was silent. The cyclist, having heard
the voices raised in altercation, glanced curiously at the
man, and the woman, and at the standing motor-car as he
passed.

** ___ Afternoon,’’ he said, cheerfully.

** Good-afternoon,’’ replied Birkin coldly.

They were silent as the man passed into the distance.

A clearer look had come over Birkin’s face. He knew she
was in the main right. He knew he was perverse, so
spiritual on the one hand, and in some strange way, de-
graded, on the other. But was she herself any better? —
Was anybody any better?

‘* It may all be true, lies and stink and all,” he said.
‘‘ But Hermione’s spiritual intimacy is no rottener than
your emotional-jealous intimacy. One can preserve the
decencies, even to one’s enemies : for one’s own sake. Her-
mione is my enemy—to her last breath! That’s why I
must bow her off the field.”’ :

‘You! You and your enemies and your bows! A
pretty picture you make of yourself. But it takes nobody

ey

EXCURSE | : 325

in but yourself. I jealous! I! What I say,’’ her voice
sprang into flame, “‘ I say because it is true, do you see,
because you are you, a foul and false liar, a whited
sepulchre. That’s why I say it. And you hear it.”

** And be grateful,”’ he added, with a satirical grimace.

** Yes,”? she cried, *‘ and if you have a spark of decency
in you, be grateful.”’ |

** Not having a spark of decency, however— ”’ he re-
torted.

** No,” she cried, ** you haven’t a spark. And so you
can go your way, and I’ll go mine. It’s no good, not the
slightest. So you can leave me now, I don’t want to go
any further with you—leave me— ”’

** You don’t even know where you are,’’ he said.

** Oh, don’t bother, I assure you I shall be all right. I’ve
got ten shillings in my purse, and that will take me back
from anywhere you have brought me to.” She hesitated.
The rings were still on her fingers, two on her little finger,
one on her ring finger. Still she hesitated.

** Very good,”’ he said. ‘* The only hopeless thing is a
foo].’’

** You are quite right,’’ she said.

Still she hesitated. Then an ugly, malevolent look came
over her face, she pulled the rings from her fingers, and
tossed them at him. One touched his face, the others hit
his coat, and they scattered into the mud.

** And take your rings,”’ she said, ** and go and buy your-
self a female elsewhere—there are plenty to be had, who
will be quite glad to share your spiritual mess,—or to
have your physical mess, and leave your spiritual mess to
Hermione.”’

With which she walked away, desultorily, up the road. He
stood motionless, watching her sullen, rather ugly walk.
She was sullenly picking and pulling at the twigs of the
hedge as she passed. She grew smaller, she seemed to pass
out of his sight. A darkness came over his mind. Only a
small, mechanical speck of consciousness hovered near him.

He felt tired and weak. Yet also he was relieved. He
gave up his old position. He went and sat on the bank.
No doubt Ursula was right. It was true, really, what she
said. He knew that his spirituality was concomitant of a
process of depravity, a sort of pleasure in self-destruction.
There really was a certain stimulant in self-destruction, for

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326 WOMEN IN LOVE |

him—especially when it was translated spiritually. But —
then he knew it—he knew it, and had done. And was not
Ursula’s way of emotional intimacy, emotional and physi-
cal, was it not just as dangerous as Hermione’s abstract
spiritual intimacy? Fusion, fusion, this horrible fusion of
two beings, which every woman and most men insisted on,
was it not nauseous and horrible anyhow, whether it was a
fusion of the spirit or of the emotional body? Hermione
saw herself as the perfect Idea, to which all men must come: —
And Ursula was the perfect Womb, the bath of birth, to
which all men must come! And both were horrible. Why
could they not remain individuals, limited by their own
limits? Why this dreadful all-comprehensiveness, this hate-
ful tyranny? Why not leave the other being free, why try
to absorb, or melt, or merge? One might abandon oneself
utterly to the moments, but not to any other being.

He could not bear to see the rings lying in the pale mud of
the road. He picked them up, and wiped them uncon-
sciously on his hands. They were the little tokens of the
reality of beauty, the reality of happiness in warm creation.
But he had made his hands all dirty and gritty.

There was a darkness over his mind. The terrible knot
of consciousness that had persisted there like an obsession
~ was broken, gone, his life was dissolved in darkness over his
limbs and his body. But there was a point of anxiety in
his heart now. He wanted her to come back. He breathed
lightly and regularly like an infant, that breathes inno-
cently, beyond the touch of responsibility.

She was coming back. He saw her drifting desultorily
under the high hedge, advancing towards him slowly. He
did not move, he did not look again. He was as if asleep,
at peace, slumbering and utterly relaxed.

She came up and stood before him, hanging her head.

‘¢ See what a flower I found you,’’ she said, wistfully
holding a piece of purple-red bell-heather under his face. He
saw the clump of coloured bells, and the tree-like, tiny
branch : also her hands, with their over-fine, over-sensitive —
skin. |

‘* Pretty ! ’? he said, looking up at her with a smile, tak-_
ing the flower. Everything had become simple again, quite
simple, the complexity gone into nowhere. But he badly
wanted to cry : except that he was weary and bored by ~
emotion. |

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PIR eC eee Ne eT eye uted MRI knee MPR OE vee Ae pe te a

EXCURSE. 327

Then a hot passion of tenderness for her filled his heart.
He stood up and looked into her face. It was new and oh,
so delicate in its luminous wonder and fear. He put his
arms round her, and she hid her face on his shoulder.

It was peace, just simple peace, as he stood folding her
quietly there on the open lane. It was peace at last. The
old, detestable world of tension had passed away at last, his
soul was strong and at ease.

She looked up at him. The wonderful yellow light in her
eyes now was soft and yielded, they were at peace with each
other. He kissed her, softly, many, many times. A laugh
came into her eyes.

** Did I abuse you ?”’ she asked.

He smiled too, and took her hand, that was so soft and
given.

** Never mind,”’ she said, ** it is all for the good.’’ He
kissed her again, softly, many times.

** Isn’t it P’? she said.

** Certainly,’’ he replied. ‘* Wait! I shall have my own
back.”’

She laughed suddenly, with a wild catch in her voice, and
flung her arms around him.

** You are mine, my love, aren’t you?”’ she cried strain-
ing him close.

** Yes,”’ he said, softly.

His voice was so soft and final, she went very still, as if
under a fate which had taken her. Yes, she acquiesced—
but it was accomplished without her acquiescence. He was
kissing her quietly, repeatedly, with a soft, still happiness
that almost made her heart stop beating.

** My love! ” she cried, lifting her face and looking with
frightened, gentle wonder of bliss. Was it all real? But
his eyes were beautiful and soft and immune from stress or
excitement, beautiful and smiling lightly to her, smiling
with her. She hid her face on his shoulder, hiding before
him, because he could see her so completely. She knew he
loved her, and she was afraid, she was in a strange element,
a new heaven round about her. She wished he were pas-
sionate, because in passion she was at home. But this was
so still and frail, as space is more frightening than
force.

Again, quickly, she lifted her head.

** Do you love me?” she said, quickly, impulsively.

828 WOMEN IN iia

** Yes,’ he replied, not heeding her motion, only her

stillness.

She knew it was true. She broke away.

** So you ought,”’ she said, turning round to look at the
road. ‘* Did you find the rings ?’’

66 Yes.’?

** Where are they ?’’

** In my pocket.”’

She put her hand into his pocket and took them out.

She was restless.

** Shall we go?’’ she said.

** Yes,’’ he answered. And they mounted to the car once
more, and left behind them this memorable battle-field.

They drifted through the wild, late afternoon, in a beau-
tiful motion that was smiling and transcendent. His mind
was sweetly at ease, the life flowed through him as from
some new fountain, he was as if born out of the cramp of
a womb.

** Are you happy-?’’ she asked him, in her strange, de-
lighted way.

** Yes,”’ he said.

** So am I,”’ she cried in sudden ecstacy, putting her arm
round him and clutching him violently against her, as he
steered the motor-car.

** Don’t drive much more,’’ she said. ‘* I don’t want
you to be always doing something.”’

** No,”’ he said. ‘* We’ll finish this little trip, and then
we'll be free.”’

** We will, my love, we will,’ she cried in delight, kissing
him as he turned to her. .

399

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LPNS feat vis ala Ra Serge eat sa Le et a ee tes
; Hic “Fae |

He drove on in a strange new wakefulness, the tension of

his consciousness broken. He seemed. to be conscious all
over, all his body awake with a simple, glimmering aware-
ness, as if he had just come awake, like a thing that is born,
like a bird when it comes out of an egg, into a new universe.

They dropped down a long hill in the dusk, and sud-
denly Ursula recognised on her right hand, below in the
hollow, the form of Southwell Minster.

. * Are we here! ”’ she cried with pleasure.

The rigid, sombre, ugly cathedral was settling under the
gloom of the coming night, as they entered the narrow town,
the golden lights showed like slabs of revelation, in the shop-
windows,

EXCURSE 329

** Father came here with mother,”’ she said, ‘* when they
first knew each other. | He loves it—he loves the Minster.
Do you?’’

** Yes. It looks like quartz crystals sticking up out of the
dark hollow. We’ll have our high tea at the Saracen’s
Head.”’

As they descended, they heard the Minster bells playing
a hymn, when the hour had struck six.

** Glory to thee my God this night

For all the blessings of the light— ”’
So, to Ursula’s ear, the tune fell out, drop by drop, from the
unseen sky on to the dusky town. It was like dim, bygone
centuries sounding. It was all so far off. She stood in the
old yard of the inn, smelling of straw and stables and
petrol. Above, she could see the first stars. What was it
all? This was no actual world, it was the dream-world of
one’s childhood—a great circumscribed reminiscence. The
world had become unreal. She herself was a strange, tran-
scendent reality.

They sat together in a little parlour by the fire.

** Is it true P”’ she said, wondering.

*¢ What ?””

** Everything—is everything true ?”’

** The best is true,’’ he said, grimacing at her.

** Is it?’’ she replied, laughing, but unassured.

She looked at him. He seemed still so separate. New
eyes were opened in her soul. She saw a strange creature
from another world, in him. It was as if she were en-
chanted, and everything were metamorphosed. She re-
called again the old magic of the Book of Genesis, where the
sons of God saw the daughters of men, that they were fair.
And he was one of these, one of these strange creatures from
the beyond, looking down at her, and seeing she was fair.

He stood on the hearth-rug looking at her, at her face
that was upturned exactly like a flower, a fresh, luminous
flower, glinting faintly golden with the dew of the first
light. And he was smiling faintly as if there were no speech
in the world, save the silent delight of flowers in each other.
Smilingly they delighted in each other’s presence, pure pre-
sence, not to be thought of, even known. But his eyes had
a faintly ironical contraction.

And she was drawn to him strangely, as in a spell.
Kneeling on the hearth-rug before him, she put her arms

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380 ‘WOMEN IN LOVE | am

round his loins, and put her face against his thighs.
Riches! Riches! She was overwhelmed with a sense of a
heavenful of riches.

** We love each other,”’ she said in delight.

** More than that,’? he answered, looking down at her
with his glimmering, easy face.

Unconsciously, with her sensitive finger-tips, she was
tracing the back of his thighs, following some mysterious
life-flow there. She had discovered something, something
more than wonderful, more wonderful than life itself. It
was the strange mystery of his life-motion, there, at the

back of the thighs, down the flanks. It was a strange |

reality of his being, the very stuff of being, there in the
straight downflow of the thighs. It was here she discovered
him one of the sons of God such as were in the beginning of
the world, not a man, something other, something more.

This was release at last. She had had lovers, she had
known passion. But this was neither love nor passion. It
was the daughters of men coming back to the sons of God,
the strange inhuman sons of God who are in the beginning.

Her face was now one dazzle of released, golden light, as
she looked up at him, and laid her hands full on his thighs,
behind, as he stood before her. He looked down at her
with a rich bright brow like a diadem above his eyes. She
was beautiful as a new marvellous flower opened at his
knees, a paradisal flower she was, beyond womanhood, such
a flower of luminousness. Yet something was tight and
unfree in him. He did not like this crouching, this radiance
—not altogether.

It was all achieved, for her. She had found one of the
sons of God from the Beginning, and he had found one of
the first most luminous daughters of men.

She traced with her hands the line of his loins and thighs,
at the back, and a living fire ran through her, from him,
darkly. It was a dark flood of electric passion she released
from him, drew into herself.. She had established a rich
new circuit, a new current of passional electric energy,
between the two of them, released from the darkest poles
of the body and established in perfect circuit. It was a
dark fire of electricity that rushed from him to her, and
flooded them both with rich peace, satisfaction.

‘* My love,”’ she cried, lifting her face to him, her eyes,

her mouth open in transport,

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EXCURSE | 331

** My love,’’ he answered, bending and kissing her, al-
ways kissing her.

She closed her hands over the full, rounded body of his
loins, as he stooped over her, she seemed to touch the quick
of the mystery of darkness that was bodily him. She
seemed to faint beneath, and he seemed to faint, stooping
over her. It was a perfect passing away for both of them,
and at the same time the most intolerable accession into
being, the marvellous fulness of immediate gratification,
overwhelming, outflooding from the source of the deepest
life-force, the darkest, deepest, strangest life-source of the
human body, at the back and base of the loins.

After a lapse of stillness, after the rivers of
strange dark fluid richness had passed over her,
flooding, carrying away her mind and flooding down
her spine and down her knees, past her feet, a
strange flood, sweeping away everything and leaving
her an essential new being, she was left quite free, she was
free in complete ease, her complete self. So she rose, stilly
and blithe, smiling at him. He stood before her, glimmer-
ing, so awfully real, that her heart almost stopped beating.
He stood there in his strange, whole body, that had its mar-
vellous fountains, like the bodies of the sons of God who
were in the beginning. There were strange fountains of his
body, more mysterious and potent than any she had imag-
ined or known, more satisfying, ah, finally, mystically-
physically satisfying. She had thought there was no source
deeper than the phallic source. And now, behold, from the
smitten rock of the man’s body, from the strange marvel-
lous flanks and thighs, deeper, further in mystery than the
phallic source, came the floods of ineffable darkness and
ineffable riches. ;

They were glad, and they could forget perfectly. They
laughed, and went to the meal provided. There was a
venison pasty, of all things, a large broad-faced cut ham,
eggs and cresses and red beet-root, and medlars and apple-
tart, and tea.

** What good things ! ”’ she cried with pleasure. ‘* How
noble it looks !—shall I pour out the tea ?— ”’

She was usually nervous and uncertain at performing
these public duties, such as giving tea. But to-day she
forgot, she was at her ease, entirely forgetting to have mis-
givings. The tea-pot poured beautifully from a proud

332 WOMEN IN LOVE

slender spout. Her eyes were warm with smiles as she gave
him his tea. She had learned at last to be still and perfect.

** Everything is ours,’’ she said to him.

** Everything,’’ he answered.

She gave a queer little crowing sound of triumph.

** I’m so glad! ”? she cried, with unspeakable relief.

** So am I,”’ he said. ‘* But I’m thinking we’d better
get out of our responsibilities as quick as we can.’’

** What responsibilities ??’ she asked, wondering.

** We must drop our jobs, like a shot.”’

A new understanding dawned into her face.

** Of course,’’ she said, ** there’s that.’’ .

** We must get out,’’ he said. ‘* There’s nothing for it
but to get out, quick.’’

She looked at him doubtfully across the table.

** But where ?”’ she said.

**T don’t know,’’ he said. ‘* We’ll just wander about
for a bit.’’ :

Again she looked at him quizzically.

** T should be perfectly happy at the Mill,”’ she said.

‘* It’s very near the old thing,’’ he said. ‘* Let us wan-
der a bit.”’

His voice could be so soft and happy-go-lucky, it went
through her veins like an exhilaration. Nevertheless she
dreamed of a valley, and wild gardens, and peace. She had
a desire too for splendour—an aristocratic extravagant
splendour. Wandering seemed to her like restlessness, dis-
satisfaction.

** Where will you wander to ?’’ she asked.

**T don’t know. I feel as if I would just meet you and
we'd set off—just towards the distance.”’

‘© But where can one go?”’ she asked anxiously. ‘* After
all, there is only the world, and none of it is very distant.”’

‘© Still,”? he said, *‘ I should like to go with you—no-
where. It would be rather wandering just to nowhere.
That’s the place to get to—nowhere. One wants to wander
away from the world’s somewheres, into our own nowhere.”’

Still she meditated.

** You see, my love,’’ she said, ** I’m so afraid that while
we are only people, we’ve got to take the world that’s given
—hecause there isn’t any other.”

** Yes there is,’? he said. ‘** There’s somewhere where we
can be free—somewhere where one needn’t wear much

EXCURSE : 388

clothes—none even—where one meets a few people who have
gone through enough, and can take things for granted—
where you be yourself, without bothering. There is some-
where—there are one or two people—

‘* But where—? ”’ she sighed.

** Somewhere—anywhere. Let’s wander off. That’s the
thing to do—let’s wander off.”’

** Yes— ” she said, thrilled at the thought of travel.
But to her it was only travel.

** To be free,’? he said. ‘* To be free, in a free place,
with a few other people! ”’

** Yes,”’ she said wistfully. Those “* few other people ”’
depressed her.

** It isn’t really a locality, though,’’ he said. ‘* It’s a
perfected relation between you and me, and others—the
perfect relation—so that we are free together.”’

** It is, my love, isn’t it,”? she said. ‘* It’s you and
me. It’s you and me, isn’t it?’’? She stretched out her
arms to him. He went across and stooped to kiss her face.
Her arms closed round him again, her hands spread upon
his shoulders, moving slowly there, moving slowly on his
back, down his back slowly, with a strange recurrent,
rhythmic motion, yet moving slowly down, pressing mys-
teriously over his loins, over his flanks. The sense of the
awiulness of riches that could never be impaired flooded her
mind like a swoon, a death in most marvellous possession,
mystic-sure. She possessed him so utterly and intolerably,
that she herself lapsed out. And yet she was only sitting
still in the chair, with her hands pressed upon him, and
lost.

Again he softly kissed her.

_ “ We shall never go apart again,’’ he murmured quietly.
And she did not speak, but only pressed her hands firmer
down upon the source of darkness in him.

They decided, when they woke again from the pure swoon,
to write their resignations from the world of work there and
then. She wanted this.

He rang the bell, and ordered note-paper without a
printed address. The waiter cleared the table.

** Now then,’’ he said, ** yours first. Put your home
address, and the date—then ‘ Director of Education, Town
Hall—Sir— ® Now then!—I don’t know how one really
stands—I suppose one could get out of it in less than a

aga WOMENIN LOVE |

month—Anyhow ‘ Sir—I beg to resign my post as class-
mistress in the Willey Green Grammar School. I should be
very grateful if you would liberate me as soon as possible,
without waiting for the expiration of the month’s notice.’
That’ll do. Have you got it?. Let me look. ‘ Ursula
Brangwen.’ Good! Now I’ll write mine. I ought to give
them three months, but I can plead health. I can arrange
it all right.”’

He sat and wrote out his formal resignation.

** Now,”’ he said, when the envelopes were sealed and
addressed, ‘* shall we post them here, both together? I
know Jackie will say, ‘ Here’s a coincidence ! ’ when he re-
ceives them in all their identity. Shall we let him say it,
or not P”’

** IT don’t care,’’ she said.

** No— ?”’ he said, pondering.

** It doesn’t matter, does it??? she said.

** Yes,’’ he replied. ‘* Their imaginations shall not. work
on us. I’ll post yours here, mine after. I cannot be im-
plicated in their imaginings.’’

He looked at her with his strange, non-human singleness.

** Yes, you are right,” she said.

She lifted her face to him, all shining and open. It was
as if he might enter straight into the source of her radiance.
His face became a little distracted.

** Shall we go ?”’ he said.

** As you like,”’ she replied.

They were soon out of the little town, and running
through the uneven lanes of the country. Ursula nestled
near him, into his constant warmth, and watched the pale-
lit revelation racing ahead, the visible night. Sometimes it
was a wide old road, with grass-spaces on either side, flying
magic and elfin in the greenish illumination, sometimes it
was trees looming overhead, sometimes it was bramble
bushes, sometimes the walls of a crew-yard and the butt
of a barn.

** Are you going to Shortlands to dinner?’’? Ursula asked
him suddenly. He started. 7

** Good God! ”’ he said. ‘* Shortlands! Never again.
Not that. Besides we should be too late.’’

** Where are we going then—to the Mill ?’’

** Tf you like. Pity to go anywhere on this good dark
night. Pity to come out of it, really. Pity we can’t stop

EXCURSE le: ae

in the good darkness. It is better than anything ever would
be—this good immediate darkness.”’

She sat wondering. The car lurched and swayed. She
knew there was no leaving him, the darkness held them
both and contained them, it was not to be surpassed. Be-
sides she had a full mystic knowledge of his suave loins of
darkness, dark-clad and suave, and in this knowledge there
was some of the inevitability and the beauty of fate, fate
which one asks for, which one accepts in full.

He sat still like an Egyptian Pharoah, driving the car.
He felt as if he were seated in immemorial potency, like the
great carven statues of real Egypt, as real and as fulfilled
with subtle strength, as these are, with a vague inscrutable
smile on the lips. He knew what it was to have the strange
and magical current of force in his back and loins, and down
his legs, force so perfect that it stayed him immobile, and
left his face subtly, mindlessly smiling. He knew what it
was to be awake and potent in that other basic mind, the
deepest physical mind. And from this source he had a pure
and magic control, magical, mystical, a force in darkness,
like electricity.

It was very difficult to speak, it was so perfect to sit in
this pure living silence, subtle, full of unthinkable know-
ledge and unthinkable force, upheld immemorially in time-
less force, like the immobile, supremely potent Egyptians,
seated forever in their living, subtle silence.

** We need not go home,”’ he said. ‘*‘ This car has seats
that let down and make a bed, and we can lift the hood.’’

She was glad and frightened. She cowered near to him.

** But what about them at home ?”’ she said.

** Send a telegram.’’

Nothing more was said. They ran on in silence. But
with a sort of second consciousness he steered the car to-
wards a destination. For he had the free intelligence to
direct his own ends. His arms and his breast and his head
were rounded and living like those of the Greek, he had not
the unawakened straight arms of the Egyptian, nor the
sealed, slumbering head. A lambent intelligence played
secondarily above his pure Egyptian concentration in dark-
ness.

They came to a village that lined along the road. The
car crept slowly along, until he saw the post-office Then
he pulled up.

B86 | WOMEN IN LOVE

** I will send a telegram to your father,” he said. ‘*I |
will merely say ‘ spending the night in town,’ shall I?’

** Yes,’’ she answered. She did not want to be disturbed
into taking thought.

She watched him move into the post-office. It was also
a shop, she saw. Strange, he was. Even as he went into
the lighted, public place he remained dark and magic, the
living silence seemed the body of reality in him, subtle,
potent, indiscoverable. There he was! In a strange up- —
lift of elation she saw him, the being never to be revealed,
awful in its potency, mystic and real. This dark, subtle
reality of him, never to be translated, liberated her into per-
fection, her own perfected being. She too was dark and
fulfilled in silence.

He came out, throwing some packages into the car.

** There is some bread, and cheese, and raisins, and
apples, and hard chocolate,’’ he said, in his voice that was
as if laughing, because of the unblemished stillness and force
. which was the reality in him. She would have to touch
him. To speak, to see, was nothing. It was a travesty to
look and to comprehend the man there. Darkness and
silence must fall perfectly on her, then she could know
mystically, in unrevealed touch. She must lightly, mind-
lessly connect with him, have the knowledge which is death
of knowledge, the reality of surety in not-knowing.

Soon they had run on again into the darkness. She did
not ask where they were going, she did not care. She sat
in a fulness and a pure potency that was like apathy, mind-
less and immobile. She was next to him, and hung in a
pure rest, as a star is hung, balanced unthinkably. Still
there remained a dark lambency of anticipation. She would
touch him. With perfect fine finger-tips of reality she
would touch the reality in him, the suave, pure, untrans-
latable reality of his loins of darkness. To touch, mind-
lessly in darkness to come in pure touching upon the living

reality of him, his suave perfect loins and thighs of dark-
ness, this was her sustaining anticipation.

And he too waited in the magical steadfastness of sus-
pense, for her to take this knowledge of him as he had taken
it of her. He knew her darkly, with the fullness of dark
knowledge. Now she would know him, and he too would
be liberated. He would be night-free, like an Egyptian,
steadfast in perfectly suspended equilibrium, pure mystic

EXCURSE 337

nodality of physical being. They would give each other
this star-equilibrium which alone is freedom.

She saw that they were running among trees—great old
trees with dying bracken undergrowth. The palish, gnarled
trunks showed ghostly, and like old priests in the hovering
distance, the fern rose magical and mysterious. It was a
night all darkness, with low cloud. The motor-car
advanced slowly.

** Where are we ?’’ she whispered.

** In Sherwood Forest.”’

It was evident he knew the place. He drove softly,
watching. Then they came to a @reen road between the
trees. They turned cautiously roun™, and were advancing
between the oaks of the forest, down a green lane. The
green lane widened into a little circle of grass, where there
was a small trickle of water at the bottom of a sloping bank.
The car stopped.

** We will stay here,”’ he said, ‘* and put out the lights.”’

He extinguished the lamps at once, and it was pure night,
with shadows of trees like realities of other, nightly being.
He threw a rug on to the bracken, and they sat in stillness
and mindless silence. There were faint sounds from the
wood, but no disturbance, no possible disturbance, the
world was under a strange ban, a new mystery had super-
vened. They threw off their clothes, and he gathered her
to him, and found her, found the pure lambent reality of
her forever invisible flesh. Quenched, inhuman, his fingers
upon her unrevealed nudity were the fingers of silence upon
' silence, the body of mysterious night upon the body of
mysterious night, the night masculine and feminine, never
to be seen with the eye, or known with the mind, only
known as a palpable revelation of living otherness.

She had her desire of him, she touched, she received the
maximum of unspeakable communication in touch, dark,
subtle, positively silent, a magnificent gift and give again,
a perfect acceptance and yielding, a mystery, the reality
of that which can never be known, vital, sensual reality
that can never be transmuted into mind content, but re-
mains outside, living body of darkness and silence and
subtlety, the mystic body of reality. She had her desire
fulfilled. He had his desire fulfilled. For she was to him
what he was to her, the immemorial magnificence of mystic,
palpable, real otherness.

Y

ee ip when he awoke. They looked at each other

Shey a aise the chilly n
ear, a night of unbroken sleep.

they kissed and remembered the magnificence of wae n
It was so magnificent, such an inheritance of a universe
dark reality, that they were afraid to seem to rememl
They hid away the remembrance and the knowledge.

!

CHAP: XXIV. DEATH AND LOVE

_ Tuomas Crich died slowly, terribly slowly. It seemed im-
possible to everybody that the thread of life could be drawn
out so thin, and yet not break. The sick man lay unutter-
ably weak and spent, kept alive by morphia and by drinks,
which he sipped slowly. He was only half conscious—a thin
strand of consciousness linking the darkness of death with
the light of day. Yet his will was unbroken, he was inte-
gral, complete. Only he must have perfect stillness about
him. |

Any presence but that of the nurses was a strain and an
effort to him now. Every morning Gerald went into the
room, hoping to find his father passed away at last. Yet
always he saw the same transparent face, the same dread
dark hair on the waxen forehead, and the awful, inchoate
dark eyes, which seemed to be decomposing into formless
darkness, having only a tiny grain of vision within them.

And always, as the dark, inchoate eyes turned to him,
there passed through Gerald’s bowels a burning stroke of
revolt, that seemed to resound through his whole being,
threatening to break his mind ee its clangour, and mak-
ing him mad.

Every morning, the son stood thine, erect: and taut with
life, gleaming in his blondness. The gleaming blondness of
his strange, imminent being put the father into a fever of
fretful irritation. He could not bear to meet the uncanny,

_ downward look of Gerald’s blue eyes. But it was only for

_amoment. Each on the brink of departure, the father and

_ son looked at each other, then parted.

For a long time Gerald preserved a perfect sang froid, he

_ remained quite collected. But at last, fear undermined

him. He was afraid of some horrible collapse in himself.

_ He had to stay and see this thing through. Some perverse

will made him watch his father drawn over the borders of

life. And yet, now, every day, the great red-hot stroke

_ of horrified fear through the bowels of the son struck a fur-

ther inflammation. Gerald went about all day with a ten-

| dency to cringe, as if there were the point of a sword of
| Damocles pricking the nape of his neck.

! 339

a T.5 Chile J
saVe

340 WOMEN IN LOVE

There was no escape—he was bound up with his father,
he had to see him through. And the father’s will never re-
laxed or yielded to death. ‘It would have to snap when
death at last snapped it,—if it did not persist after a physi-
cal death. In the same way, the will of the son never
yielded. He stood firm and immune, he was outside this
death and this dying.

It was a trial by ordeal. Could he stand and see his
father slowly dissolve and disappear in death, without once
yielding his will, without once relenting before the omnipo-
tence of death. Like a Red Indian undergoing torture,
Gerald would experience the whole process of slow death
without wincing or flinching. He even triumphed in it.
He somehow wanted this death, even forced it.. It was as if
he himself were dealing the death, even when he most re-
coiled in horror. Still, he would deal it, he would triumph
through death.

But in the stress of this ordeal, Gerald too lost his hold
on the outer, daily life. That which was much to him,
came to mean nothing. Work, pleasure—it was all left
behind. He went on more or less mechanically with his
business, but this activity was all extraneous. The real
activity was this ghastly wrestling for death in his own soul.
And his own will should triumph. Come what might, he
would not bow down or submit or acknowledge a master.
He had no master in death.

But as the fight went on, and all that he had been and
was continued to be destroyed, so that life was a hollow shell
all round him, roaring and clattering like the sound of the
sea, a noise in which he participated externally, and inside
this hollow shell was all the darkness and fearful space of
death, he knew he would have to find reinforcements, other-
wise he would collapse inwards upon the great dark void
which circled at the centre of his soul. His will held his
outer life, his outer mind, his outer being unbroken and
unchanged. But the pressure was too great. He would
have to find something to make good the equilibrium.
Something must come with him into the hollow void of
death in his soul, fill it up, and so equalise the pressure
within to the pressure without. For day by day he felt more
and more like a bubble filled with darkness, round which
whirled the iridescence of his consciousness, and upon which
the pressure of the outer world, the outer life, roared vastly.

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DEATH AND LOVE 341

In this extremity his instinct led him to Gudrun. He
threw away everything now—he only wanted the relation
established with her. He would follow her to the studio, to
be near her, to talk to her. He would stand about the
room, aimlessly picking up the implements, the lumps of
clay, the little figures she had cast—they were whimsical
and grotesque,—looking at them without perceiving them.
And she felt him following her, dogging her heels like a

_ doom. She held away from him, and yet she knew he drew
always a little nearer, a little nearer.

** I say,”’ he said to her one evening, in an odd, unthink-
ing, uncertain way, ‘* won’t you stay to dinner to-night? I
wish you would.’’

She started slightly. He spoke to her like a man making
a request of another man.

** They’ll be expecting me at home,”’ she said.

** Oh, they won’t mind, will they?’ he said. ‘* I should
be awfully glad if you’d stay.’’

Her long silence gave consent at last.

** T’ll tell Thomas, shall I? *’ he said.

**I must go almost immediately after dinner,’’ she
said.

It was a dark, cold evening. There was no fire in the
drawing-room, they sat in the library. He was mostly
silent, absent, and Winifred talked little. But when
Gerald did rouse himself, he smiled and was pleasant and
ordinary with her. Then there came over him again the
long blanks, of which he was not aware.

She was very much attracted by him. He looked so pre-
occupied, and his strange, blank silences, which she could
not read, moved her and made her wonder over him, made
her feel reverential towards him.

But he was very kind. He gave her the best things at
the table, he had a bottle of slightly sweet, delicious golden
wine brought out for dinner, knowing she would prefer it to
the burgundy. She felt herself esteemed, needed almost.

As they took coffee in the library, there was a soft, very
soft knocking at the door. He started, and called ** Come
in.”’ The timbre of his voice, like something vibrating at
high pitch, unnerved Gudrun. A nurse in white entered,
half hovering in the doorway like a shadow. . She was
very good-looking, but strangely enough, shy and self-
mistrusting. 3

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342 | WOMEN IN LOVE

** The doctor would like to speak to you, Mr Crich,’? she
said, in her low, discreet voice.

** The doctor! ”? he said, starting up. ‘* Where is he ?”’

** He is in the dining room.’’

** Tell him I’m coming.’’

He drank up his coffee, and followed the nurse, who had —

dissolved like a shadow.
** Which nurse was that ?”’ asked Gudrun.
** Miss Inglis—I like her best,’’ replied Winifred.

After a while Gerald came back, looking absorbed by his

own thoughts, and having some of that tension and abstrac-
tion which is seen in a slightly drunken man. He did not
say what the doctor had wanted him for, but stood before
the fire, with his hands behind his back, and his face open
and as if rapt. Not that he was really thinking—he was
only arrested in pure suspense inside himself, and thoughts
wafted through his mind without order.

** IT must go now and see Mama,” said Winifred, ‘‘ and see
Dadda before he goes to sleep.”’

She bade them both good-night.

Gudrun also rose to take her leave.

** You needn’t go yet, need you?”’ said Gerald, glancing
quickly at the clock. ‘* It is early yet. I?ll walk down
with you when you go. Sit down, don’t hurry away.”

Gudrun sat down, as if, absent as he was, his will had
power over her. She felt almost mesmerised. He was
strange to her, something unknown. What was he think-
ing, what was he feeling, as he stood there so rapt, saying
nothing? He kept her—she could feel that. He would
not let her go. She watched him in humble submissiveness.

‘* Had the doctor anything new to tell you?’’ she asked,
softly, at length, with that gentle, timid sympathy. which
touched a keen fibre in his heart. He lifted his eyebrows
with a negligent, indifferent expression.

** No—nothing new,”’ he replied, as if the question were
quite casual, trivial. ‘* He says the pulse is very weak in-
deed, very intermittent—but that doesn’t necessarily mean
much, you know.”’’ |

He looked down at her. Her eyes were dark and soft and
unfolded, with a stricken look that roused him.

** No,’’? she murmured at length. ‘‘ I don’t understand
anything about these things.”’

** Just as well not,’’ he said. ‘* I say, won’t you have a

DEATH AND LOVE “i 343
cigarette ?—do! ’’ He quickly fetched the box, and held
her a light. Then he stood before her on the hearth again.

** No,” he said, **f we’ve never had much illness in the
house, either—not till father.’? He seemed to meditate a
while. Then looking down at her, with strangely communi-
cative blue eyes, that filled her with dread, he continued :
** It’s something you don’t reckon with, you know, till it is
there. And then you realise that it was there all the time
—it was always there—you understand what I mean ?—the
possibility of this incurable illness, this slow death.”?

He moved his feet uneasily on the marble hearth, and
put his cigarette to his mouth, looking up at the ceiling.

** | know,’? murmured Gudrun : * it is dreadful.’’

He smoked without knowing. Then he took the cigarette
from his lips, bared his teeth, and putting the tip of his
tongue between his teeth spat off a grain of tobacco, turning
slightly aside, like a man who is alone, or who is lost in
thought.

' * T don’t know what the effect actually is, on one,’’ he
said, and again he looked down at her. Her eyes were dark
and stricken with knowledge, looking into his. He saw her
submerged, and he turned aside his face. ‘* But I abso-
lutely am not the same. There’s nothing left, if you under-
stand what I mean. You seem to be clutching at the void
—and at the same time you are void yourself. And so you
don’t know what to do.’’

* No,’? she murmured. A heavy thrill ran down her
nerves, heavy, almost pleasure, almost pain. ‘* What can
be done ?’’ she added.

He turned, and flipped the ash from his cigarette on to
the great marble hearth-stones, that lay bare in the room,
without fender or bar.

**T don’t know, I’m sure,’’ he replied. ‘* But I do
think you’ve got to find some way of resolving the situation
—not because you want to, but because you’ve got to,
otherwise you’re done. The whole of everything, and your-
self included, is just on the point of caving in, and you are
just holding it up with your hands. Well, it’s a situation
that obviously can’t continue. You can’t stand holding the
roof up with your hands, for ever. You know that sooner
or later you’ll have to let go. Do you understand what I
mean? And so something’s got to be done, or there’s a
universal collapse—as far as you yourself are concerned.”’

344 WOMEN IN LOVE © OS ee

_ He shifted slightly on the hearth, crunching a cinder

under his heel. He looked down at it. Gudrun was aware
of the beautiful old marble panels of the fireplace, swelling
softly carved, round him and above him. She felt as if she
were caught at last by fate, imprisoned in some horrible
and fatal trap.

** But what can be done ?”? she murmured humbly. ‘* You
must use me if I can be of any help at all—but how can I?
I don’t see how I can help you.”’

He looked down at her critically.

** IT don’t want you to help,’’ he said, slightly irritated,
** because there’s nothing to be done. I only want sym-
pathy, do you see: I want somebody I can talk to sym-
pathetically. That eases the strain. And there is nobody
to talk to sympathetically. That’s the curious thing.
There is nobody. There’s Rupert Birkin. But then he
isn’t sympathetic, he wants to dictate. And that is no use
whatsoever.”’

She was caught in a strange snare. She looked down at
her hands.

Then there was the sound of the door softly opening.
Gerald started. He was chagrined. It was his starting
that really startled Gudrun. Then he went forward, with
quick, graceful, intentional courtesy.

** Oh, mother! ’? he said. ‘* How nice of you to come
down. How are you?’’

The elderly woman, loosely and bulkily wrapped in a
purple gown, came forward silently, slightly hulked, as
usual. Her son was at her side. He pushed her up
a chair, saying ‘*‘ You know Miss Brangwen, don’t
your.

The mother glanced at Gudrun indifferently.

** Yes,’? she said. Then she turned her wonderful, for-
get-me-not blue eyes up to her son, as she slowly sat down
in the chair he had brought her.

** T came to ask you about your father,’ she said, in her
rapid, scarcely-audible voice. ‘* I didn’t know you had

‘No? Didn’t Winifred tell your Miss Brangwen
stayed to dinner, to make us a little more lively— ”

Mrs Crich turned slowly round to Gudrun, and looked at
her, but with unseeing eyes.

‘¢ I’m afraid it would be no treat to her.’’ Then she

>

DEATH AND LOVE 845

turned again to herson. ‘‘ Winifred tells me the doctor had
something to say about your father. What is it?’

** Only that the pulse is very weak—misses altogether a
good many times—so that he might not last the night out,”’
Gerald replied.

Mrs Crich sat perfectly impassive, as if she had not heard.
Her bulk seemed hunched in the chair, her fair hair hung
slack over her ears. But her skin was clear and fine, her
hands, as she sat with them forgotten and folded, were quite
beautiful, full of potential energy. A’ great mass of energy
seemed decaying up in that silent, hulking form.

She looked up at her son, as he stood, keen and soldierly,
near to her. Her eyes were most wonderfully blue, bluer

than forget-me-nots. She seemed to have a certain confi-
dence in Gerald, and to feel a certain motherly mistrust of
him.

** How are you?’ she muttered, in her strangely quiet
voice, as if nobody should hear but him. ‘* You’re not
getting into a state, are you? You’re not letting it make
you hysterical ?”’

The curious challenge in the last words startled Gudrun.

** I don’t think so, mother,’’ he answered, rather coldly
cheery. ‘* Somebody’s got to see it through, you know.”’

** Have they? Have they?’’ answered his mother
rapidly. ‘* Why should you take it on yourself? What
have you got to do, seeing it through. It will see itself
through. You are not needed.’’

** No, I don’t suppose I can do any good,”’ he answered.
** It’s just how it affects us, you see.”’

** You like to be affected—don’t you? It’s quite nuts
for you? You would have to be important. You have no
need to stop at home. Why don’t you go away! ”’

These sentences, evidently the ripened grain of many
_ dark hours, took Gerald by surprise.

**T don’t think it’s any good going away now, mother,
at the last minute,”’ he said, coldly.

** You take care,’’ replied his mother. ** You mind
yourselj—that’s your business. You take too much on
yourself. You mind yourself, or you'll find yourself in
Queer Street, that’s what will happen to you. You’re
hysterical, always were.”’

** I’m all right, mother,’’ he said. ‘* There’s no need to
worry about me, I assure you.”’

eT NORAD 1S ks (Br a a

Pali) [a

- 846 WOMEN IN LOVE

** Let the dead bury their dead—don’t go and bury your- |

self along with them—that’s what I tell you. I know you
well enough.”’

He did not answer this, not knowing what to say. The
mother sat bunched up in silence, her beautiful white hands,
that had no rings whatsoever, clasping the pommels of her
arm-chair.

** You can’t do it,” she said, almost bitterly. ‘* You
haven’t the nerve. You’re as weak as a cat, really—always
were. Is this young woman staying here ?’’

** No,” said Gerald. ‘* She is going home to-night.”

** Then she’d better have the dog-cart. Does she go
far???

** Only to Beldover.”’

“© Ah!’ The elderly woman never looked at Gudrun,
yet she seemed to take knowledge of her presence.

** You are inclined to take too much on yourself, Gerald,”’
said the mother, pulling herself to her feet, with a little
difficulty.

** Will you go, mother ?”’ he asked, politely.

** Yes, I’ll go up again,”’ she replied. Turning to Gud-
run, she bade her ** Good-night.’? Then she went slowly to
the door, as if she were unaccustomed to walking. At the
door she lifted her face to him, implicitly. He kissed her.

** Don’t come any further with me,’’ she said, in her
barely audible voice. ‘* I don’t want you any further.”’

He bade her good-night, watched her across to the stairs

and mount slowly. Then he closed the door and came back
to Gudrun. Gudrun rose also, to go.

** A queer being, my mother,”’ he said.

‘© Yes,’ replied Gudrun.

** She has her own thoughts.”’

** Yes,’’ said Gudrun.

Then they were silent. ©

** You want to go?’? he asked. ‘* Half a minute, I'll
just have a horse put in— ”’ ;

** No,’’ said Gudrun. ‘* I want to walk.’’

He had promised to walk with her down the long, lonely
mile of drive, and she wanted this.

** You might just as well drive,’’ he said.

‘© 1’d much rather walk,” she asserted, with emphasis.

‘© You would! Then I will come along with you. You
know where your things are? 1’I] put boots on.”’

“a

DEATH AND LOVE 347
_ He put on a cap, and an overcoat over his evening dress.
They went out into the night.

** Let us light a cigarette,” he said, stopping in a shel-
tered angle of the porch. ‘* You have one too.”? ~

So, with the scent of tobacco on the night air, they set off
down the dark drive that ran between close-cut hedges
through sloping meadows.

He wanted to put his arm round her. If he could put his
arm round her, and draw her against him as they walked,
he would equilibriate himself. For now he felt like a pair of
scales, the half of which tips down and down into an inde-
finite void. He must recover some sort of balance. And
here was the hope and the perfect recovery.

Blind to her, thinking only of himself, he slipped his arm
softly round her waist, and drew her to him. Her heart
fainted, feeling herself taken. But then, his arm was so
strong, she quailed under its powerful close grasp. She died
a little death, and was drawn against him as they walked
down the stormy darkness. He seemed to balance her per-
fectly in opposition to himself, in their dual motion of walk-
ing. So, suddenly, he was liberated and perfect, strong,
heroic.

He put his hand to his mouth and threw his cigarette
away, a gleaming point, into the unseen hedge. Then he
was quite free to balance her.

** That’s better,” he said, with exultancy.

The exultation in his voice was like a sweetish, poisonous
drug to her. Did she then mean so much to him ! She
sipped the poison.

** Are you happier ?”’ she asked, wistfully.

** Much better,’’ he said, in the same exultant voice, *‘and
I was rather far gone.”’

She nestled against him. He felt her all soft and warm,
she was the rich, lovely substance of his being. The
warmth and motion of her walk suffused through him won-
derfully.

** I’m so glad if I help you,”’ she said.

** Yes,”? he answered. ‘* There’s Dawty else could do ~
it, if you wouldn’t.”’

‘* That is true,’’ she said to herself, with a thrill of
strange, fatal elation.

As they walked, he seemed to lift her nearer and nearer
to himself, till she moved upon the firm vehicle of his body.

848 WOMEN IN LOVE. i

He was so strong, so sustaining, and he could aa be
opposed. She drifted along in a wonderful interfusion of
physical motion, down the dark, blowy hill-side. Far across
shone the little yellow lights of Beldover, many of them,
spread in a thick patch on another dark hill. But he and
she ae walking in perfect, isolated darkness, outside the
world.

‘** But how much do you care for me! ’? came her voice,
almost querulous. ‘* You see, I don’t know, I don’t under-
stand ! ”’

** How much! ”’ His voice rang with a painful elation.
** I don’t know either—but everything.’ He was startled
by his own declaration. It was true. So he stripped him-
self of every safeguard, in making this admission to her.
He cared everything for her—she was everything.

** But I can’t believe it,’’ said her low voice, amazed,
trembling. She was trembling with doubt and exultance.
This was the thing she wanted to hear, only this. Yet now
she heard it, heard the strange clapping vibration of truth
in his voice as he said it, she could not believe. She could
not believe—she did not believe. Yet she believed, trium-
phantly, with fatal exultance.

— *© Why not?’? he said. ‘* Why don’t you believe it?
It’s true. _ It is true, as we stand at this moment— ”’ he
stood still with her in the wind; ‘‘ I care for nothing on
earth, or in heaven, outside this spot where we are. And it
isn’t my own presence I care about, it is all yours. I’d
sell my soul a hundred times—but I couldn’t bear not to
have you here. I couldn’t bear to be alone. My brain
would burst. It is true.’”? He drew her closer to him, with
definite movement.

** No,”? she murmured, afraid. Yet this was his she
wanted. Why did she so lose courage ?

They resumed their strange walk. They were such
strangers—and yet they were so frightfully, unthinkably
near. It was like amadness. Yet it was what she wanted,
it was what she wanted. They had descended the hill, and
now they were coming to the square arch where the road
passed under the colliery railway.. The arch, Gudrun knew,
had walls of squared stone, mossy on one side with water
that trickled down, dry on the other side. She had stood
under it to hear the train rumble thundering over the logs
overhead. And she knew that under this dark and lonely

DEATH AND LOVE 349

bridge the young colliers stood in the darkness with their
sweethearts, in rainy weather. And so she wanted to stand
under the bridge with her sweetheart, and be kissed under
the bridge in the invisible darkness. Her steps dragged as
she drew near.

So, under the bridge, they came to a standstill, and he
lifted her upon his breast. His body vibrated taut and
powerful as he closed upon her and crushed her, breathless
and dazed and destroyed, crushed her upon his breast. Ah,
it was terrible, and perfect. Under this bridge, the colliers
pressed their lovers to their breast. And now, under the
bridge, the master of them all pressed her to himself! And
how much more powerful and terrible was his embrace than
theirs, how much more concentrated and supreme his love
was, than theirs in the same sort! She felt she would
swoon, die, under the vibrating, inhuman tension of his
arms and his body—she would pass away. Then the un-
thinkable high vibration slackened and became more undu-
lating. He slackened and drew her with him to stand with
his back to the wall.

She was almost unconscious. So the colliers’ lovers
would stand with their backs to the walls, holding their
sweethearts and kissing them as she was being kissed. Ah,
but would their kisses be fine and powerful as the kisses of
the firm-mouthed master? Even the keen, short-cut
moustache—the colliers would not have that.

And the colliers’ sweethearts would, like herself, hang
their heads back limp over their shoulder, and look out
from the dark archway, at the close patch of yellow lights
on the unseen hill in the distance, or at the vague form of
trees, and at the buildings of the colliery wood-yard, in the
other direction.

His arms were fast around her, he seemed to be gathering
her into himself, her warmth, her softness, her adorable
weight, drinking in the suffusion of her physical being,
avidly. He lifted her, and seemed to pour her into him-
self, like wine into a cup.

** This is worth everything,”’ he said, in a strange, pene-
trating voice.

So she relaxed, and seemed to melt, to flow into him, as
if she were some infinitely warm and precious suffusion fil-
ling into his veins, like an intoxicant. Her arms were
round his neck, he kissed her and held her perfectly sus-

ref.
Oe
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B50 WOMEN IN LOVE

pended, she was all slack and flowing into him, and he was
the firm, strong cup that receives the wine of her life. So
she lay cast upon him, stranded, lifted up against him,
melting and melting under his kisses, melting into his limbs
and bones, as if he were soft iron becoming surcharged
with her electric life.

Till she seemed to swoon, gradually her mind went, and
she passed away, everything in her was melted down and
fluid, and she lay still, become contained by him, sleeping
in him as lightning sleeps in a pure, soft stone. So she was
passed away and gone in him, and he was perfected.

When she opened her eyes again, and saw the patch of
lights in the distance, it seemed to her strange that the world
still existed, that she was standing under the bridge resting
her head on Gerald’s breast. Gerald—who was he? He
was the exquisite adventure, the desirable unknown to her.

She looked up, and in the darkness saw his face above
her, his shapely, male face. There seemed a faint, white
light emitted from him, a white aura, as if he were visitor
from the unseen. She reached up, like Eve reaching to the
apples on the tree of knowledge, and she kissed him, though
her passion was a transcendent fear of the thing he was,
touching his face with her infinitely delicate, encroaching
wondering fingers. Her fingers went over the mould of his
face, over his features. How perfect and foreign he was—
ah how dangerous! Her soul thrilled with complete know-
ledge. This was the glistening, forbidden apple, this face
of a man. She kissed him, putting her fingers over his
face, his eyes, his nostrils, over his brows and his ears, to his
neck, to know him, to gather him in by touch. He was so
firm, and shapely, with such satisfying, inconceivable shape-
liness, strange, yet unutterably clear. He was such an un-
utterable enemy, yet glistening with uncanny white fire.
She wanted to touch him and touch him and touch hin, till
she had him all in her hands, till she had strained him into
her knowledge. Ah, if she could have the precious know-
ledge of him, she would be filled, and nothing could deprive
her of this. For he was so unsure, so risky in the common
world of day.

*¢ You are so beautiful,’’? she murmured in her throat.

He wondered, and was suspended. But she felt him
quiver, and she came down involuntarily nearer upon him.
He could not help himself. Her fingers had him under their

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DEATH AND LOVE 351
power. The fathomless, fathomless desire they could evoke ©
in him was deeper than death, where he had no choice.

But she knew now, and it was enough. For the time,
her soul was destroyed with the exquisite shock of his invis-
ible fluid lightning. She knew. And this knowledge was a
death from which she must recover. How much more of
him was there to know? Ah much, much, many days har-
vesting for her large, yet perfectly subtle and intelligent
hands upon the field of his living, radio-active body. Ah,
her hands were eager, greedy for knowledge. But for the
present it was enough, enough, as much as her soul could
bear. Too much, and she would shatter herself, she would
fill the fine vial of her soul too quickly, and it would break.
Enough now—enough for the time being. There were all
the after days when her hands, like birds, could feed upon
the fields of his mystical plastic form—till then enough.

And even he was glad to be checked, rebuked, held back.
For to desire is better than to possess, the finality of the end
was dreaded as deeply as it was desired.

They walked on towards the town, towards where the
lamps threaded singly, ‘at long intervals down the dark
high-road of the valley. They came at length to the gate
of the drive.

** Don’t come any further,”’ she said.

** You’d rather I didn’t??? he asked, relieved. He did
not want to go up the public streets with her, his soul all
naked and alight as it was.

** Much rather—good-night.”’ She held out her hand.
He grasped it, then touched the perilous, potent fingers with
his lips.

** Good-night,’’ he said. ‘* To-morrow.’’

And they parted. He went home full of the strength and
the power of living desire.

But the next day, she did not come, she sent a note that
she was kept indoors by acold. Here was a torment! But
he possessed his soul in some sort of patience, writing a brief
answer, telling her how sorry he was not to see her.

The day after this, he stayed at home—it seemed so
futile to go down to the office. His father could not live
the week out. And he wanted to be at home, suspended.

Gerald sat on a chair by the window in his father’s room.
The landscape outside was black and winter-sodden. His
father lay grey and ashen on the bed, a nurse moved silently

352 WOMEN IN LOVE

in her white dress, neat and elegant, even beautiful. There
was a scent of eau-de-cologne in the room. The nurse went
out of the room, Gerald was alone with death, facing the
winter-black landscape.

** Is there much more water in Denley ?’? same the faint
voice, determined and querulous, from the bed. The dying
man was asking about a leakage from Willey Water into
one of the pits. | ?

** Some more—we shall have to run off the lake,”’ said
Gerald. |

** Will you??? The faint voice filtered to extinction.
There was dead stillness. The grey-faced, sick man lay with
eyes closed, more dead than death. Gerald looked away.
He felt his heart was seared, it would perish if this went on
much longer.

Suddenly he heard a strange noise. Turning round, he
saw his father’s eyes wide open, strained and rolling in a
frenzy of inhuman struggling. Gerald started to his feet,
and stood transfixed in horror.

*€ Wha-a-ah-h-h- ’? came a horrible choking rattle from
his father’s throat, the fearful, frenzied eye, rolling awfully
in its wild fruitless search for help, passed blindly over
Gerald, then up came the dark blood and mess pumping
over the face of the agonised being. The tense body
relaxed, the head fell aside, down the pillow.

Gerald stood transfixed, his soul echoing in horror. He
would move, but he could not. He could not move his
limbs. His brain seemed to re-echo, like a pulse.

The nurse in white softly entered. She glanced at Gerald,
then at the bed.

** Ah! ’? came her soft whimpering cry, and she hurried
forward to the dead man. ‘°* Ah-h! ”’ came the slight
sound of her agitated distress, as she stood bending over
the bedside. Then she recovered, turned, and came for
towel and sponge. She was wiping the dead face carefully,
and murmuring, almost whimpering, very softly : ** Poor
Mr Crich !—Poor Mr Crich !—Oh poor Mr Crich! ”’

** Is he dead ?’? clanged Gerald’s sharp voice.

** Oh yes, he’s gone,’’ replied the soft, moaning voice of
the nurse, as she looked up at Gerald’s face. She was
young and beautiful and quivering. A strange sort of grin
went over Gerald’s face, over the horror. And he walked
out of the room.

titania =—

DEATH AND LOVE 353

He was going to tell his mother. On the landing he met
his brother Basil.

** He’s gone, Basil,’’ he said, scarcely able to subdue his
voice, not to let an unconscious, frightening exultation
sound through.

** What ?”’ cried Basil, going pale.

Gerald nodded. Then he went on to his mother’s room.

She was sitting in her purple gown, sewing, very slowly
sewing, putting in a stitch, then another stitch. She looked
up at Gerald with her blue, undaunted eyes.

** Father’s gone,”’ he said.

** He’s dead? Who says so?”’

** Oh, you know, mother, if you see him.”

_ She put her sewing down, and slowly rose.

** Are you going to see him P’’ he asked.

** Yes,’’ she said.

By the bedside the children already stood in a weeping

roup.

** Oh, mother! ’’ cried the daughters, almost in hysterics,
weeping loudly.

But the mother went forward. The dead man lay in
repose, as if gently asleep, so gently, so peacefully, like a
young man sleeping in purity. He was still warm. She
stood looking at him in gloomy, heavy silence, for some
time.

** Ay,” she said bitterly, at length, speaking as if to the
unseen witnesses of the air. ‘* You’re dead.’’ She stood
for some minutes in silence, looking down. ‘‘ Beautiful,’’
she asserted, ** beautiful as if life had never touched you—
never touched you. God send I look different. I hope I
shall look my years, when I am dead. Beautiful, beauti-
ful,?? she crooned over him. ‘* You can see him in his
teens, with his first beard on his face. A beautiful soul,
beautiful— ’? Then there was a tearing in her voice as she
cried : ** None of you look like this, when you are dead!
Don’t let it happen again.’’ It was a strange, wild com-
mand from out of the unknown. Her children moved un-
consciously together, in a nearer group, at the dreadful
command in her voice. The colour was’ flushed bright in
her cheek, she looked awful and wonderful. ‘* Blame me,
blame me if you like, that he lies there like a lad in his teens,
with his first beard on his face. Blame me if you like. But
you none of you know.’’ She was silent in intense silence.

Z

B54 WOMEN IN LOVE

Then there came, in a low, tense voice : “ If I thought that
the children I bore would lie looking like that in death, I’d
strangle them when they were infants, yes— ”’

** No, mother,’’ came the strange, clarion voice of Gerald
from the background, ** we are different, we don’t blame
you.

She turned and looked full in his eyes. Then she lifted
her hands in a strange half-gesture of mad despair.

** Pray!” she said strongly. ‘* Pray for yourselves to
God, for there’s no help for you from your parents.”’

** Oh mother! ” cried her daughters wildly.

But she had turned and gone, and they all went quickly
away from each other.

When Gudrun heard that Mr Crich was dead, she felt re-
buked. She had stayed away lest Gerald should think her
too easy of winning. And now, he was in the midst of
trouble, whilst she was cold.

The following day she went up as usual to Winifred, who
was glad to see her, glad to get away into the studio. The
girl had wept, and then, too frightened, had turned aside to
avoid any more tragic eventuality. She and Gudrun re-
sumed work as usual, in the isolation of the studio, and this
seemed an immeasurable happiness, a pure world of free-
dom, after the aimlessness and misery of the house. Gud-
run stayed on till evening. She and Winifred had dinner
brought up to the studio, where they ate in freedom, away
from all the people in the house.

After dinner Gerald came up. The great high studio was
full of shadow and a fragrance of coffee. Gudrun and
Winifred had a little table near the fire at the far end, with
a white lamp whose light did not travel far. They were a
tiny world to themselves, the two girls surrounded by lovely
shadows, the beams and rafters shadowy overhead, the
benches and implements shadowy down the studio.

‘* You are cosy enough here,”’ said Gerald, going up to
them.

There was a low brick fireplace, full of fire, an old blue
Turkish rug, the little oak table with the lamp and the
white-and-blue cloth and the dessert, and Gudrun making
coffee in an odd brass coffee-maker, and Winifred scalding a
little milk in a tiny saucepan.

‘* Have you had coffee ?”’ said Gudrun.

‘“‘ T have, but I’ll have some more with you,”’ he replied.

DEATH AND LOVE 355

** Then you must have it in a glass—there are only two
cups,’’ said Winifred.

** It is the same to me,”’ he said, taking a chair and com-
ing into the charmed circle of the girls. How happy they
were, how cosy and glamorous it was with them, in a world
of lofty shadows! The outside world, in which he had been
transacting funeral business all the day ‘was completely
wiped out. In an instant he snuffed glamour and magic.

They had all their things very dainty, two odd and lovely
little cups, scarlet and solid gilt, and a little black jug with
scarlet discs, and the curious coffee-machine, whose spirit-
flame flowed steadily, almost invisibly. There was the
effect of rather sinister richness, in which Gerald at once
escaped himself.

They all sat down, and Gudrun carefully poured out the
coffee.

** Wili you have milk ?’”’ she asked calmly, yet nervously
poising the little black jug with its big red dots. She was
always so ccmpletely controlled, yet so bitterly nervous.

** No, I won’t,”’ he replied.

So, with a curious humility, she placed him the little cup
of coffee, and herself took the awkward tumbler. She
seemed to want to serve him.

** Why don’t you give me the glass—it is so clumsy for
you,’’ he said. He would much rather have had it, and
seen her daintily served. But she was silent, pleased with
the disparity, with her self-abasement.

** You are quite en ménage,”’ he said.

** Yes. We aren’t really at home to visitors,’’ said
Winifred.

** You’re not? Then I’m an intruder ?”’

For once he felt his conventional dress was out of place,
he was an outsider.

Gudrun was very quiet. She did not feel drawn to talk
to him. At this stage, silence was best—or mere light
_ words. It was best to leave serious things aside. So they
talked gaily and lightly, till they heard the man below lead
out the horse, and call it to ** back-back ! ’ into the dog-
cart that was to take Gudrun home. So she put on her
things, and shook hands with Gerald, without once meeting
his eyes. And she was gone.

The funeral was detestable. Afterwards, at the tea-table,
the danghters kept saying—‘* He was a good father to us—

356 _

the best father in the world ’”—or else—‘‘ We shan’t easily
find another man as good as father was.’

Gerald acquiesced in all this. It was the right conven-

tional attitude, and, as far as the world went, he believed in
the conventions. He took it as a matter of course. But
Winifred hated everything, and hid in the studio, and cried
her heart out, and wished Gudrun would come.

Luckily everybody was going away. The Criches never
stayed long at home. By dinner-time, Gerald was left quite
alone. Even Winifred was carried off to London, for a few
days with her sister Laura.

But when Gerald was really left alone, he could not bear
it. One day passed by, and another. And all the time he
was like a man hung in chains over the edge of an abyss.
Struggle as he might, he could not turn himself to the solid
earth, he could not get footing. He was suspended on the
edge of a void, writhing. Whatever he thought of, was the
abyss—whether it were friends or strangers, or work or
play, it all showed him only the same bottomless void, in
which his heart swung perishing. There was no escape,
there was nothing to grasp hold of. He must writhe on the
edge of the chasm, suspended in chains of invisible physical
life. ;

At first he was quiet, he kept still, expecting the extremity
to pass away, expecting to find himself released into the
world of the living, after this extremity of penance. But it
did not pass, and a crisis gained upon him.

As the evening of the third day came on, his heart rang
with fear. He could not bear another night. Another
night was coming on, for another night he was to be sus-
pended in chain of physical life, over the bottomless pit of
nothingness. And he could not bearit. He could not bear
it. He was frightened deeply, and coldly, frightened in his
soul. He did not believe in his own strength any more. He
could not fall into this infinite void, and rise again. If he
fell, he would be gone for ever. He must withdraw, he
must seek reinforcements. He did not believe in his own
single self, any further than this. |

After dinner, faced with the ultimate experience of his
own nothingness, he turned aside. He pulled on his boots,
put on his coat, and set out to walk in the night.

It was dark and misty. He went through the wood,
stumbling and feeling his way to the Mill. Birkin was

DEATH AND LOVE 357

away. Good—he was half glad. We turnea up tne hill,
and stumbled blindly over the wild slopes, having lost the
- path in the complete darkness. It was boring. Where
was he going? No matter. He stumbled on till he came
to a path again. Then he went on through another wood.
His mind became dark, he went on automatically. Without
thought or sensation, he stumbled unevenly on, out into the
open again, fumbling for stiles, losing the path, and going
along the hedges of the fields till he came to the outlet.

And at last he came to high road. It had distracted him
to struggle blindly through the maze of darkness. But now,
he must take a direction. And he did not even know where
he was. But he must take a direction now. Nothing
would be resolved by merely ‘eaten walking away. He
had to take a direction.

He stood still on the road, that was high in the utterly
dark night, and he did not know where he was. It was a
strange sensation, his heart beating, and ringed round with
the utterly unknown darkness. So he stood for some time.

Then he heard footsteps, and saw a small, swinging light.
He immediately went towards this. It was a miner.

** Can you tell me,”’ he said, ** where this road goes ?”’

** Road? Ay, it goes ter Whatmore.”’

** Whatmore! Oh thank you, that’s right. I thought I
was wrong. Good-night.’’

** Good-night,’’ replied the broad voice of the miner.

Gerald guessed where he was. At least, when he came
to Whatmore, he would know. He was glad to be on a high
road. He walked forward as in a sleep of decision.

That was Whatmore Village—? Yes, the King’s Head—
and there the hall gates. He descended the steep hill almost
running. Winding through the hollow, he passed the
Grammar School, and came to Willey Green Church. The
churchyard! He halted.

Then in another moment he had clambered up the wall
and was going among the graves. Even in this darkness -
he could see the heaped pallor of old white flowers at his
feet. This then was the grave. He stooped down. The
flowers were cold and clammy. There was a raw scent of
chrysanthemums and tube-roses, deadened. He felt the
clay beneath, and shrank, it was so horribly cold and sticky.
He stood away in revulsion.

Here was one centre then, here in the complete darkness

358 WOMEN IN LOVE

beside the unseen, raw grave. But there was nothing for
him here. No, he had nothing to stay here for. He felt as
if some of the clay were sticking cold and unclean, on his
heart. No, enough of this.

Where then?—home? Never! It was no use going
there. That was less than no use. It could not be done.
There was somewhere else to go. Where? |

A dangerous resolve formed in his heart, like a fixed idea.
There was Gudrun—she would be safe in her home. But he
could get at her—he would get at her. He would not go
back to-night till he had come to her, if it cost him his life.
He staked his all on this throw.

He set off walking straight across the fields towards Bel-
dover. It was so dark, nobody could ever see him. His
feet were wet and cold, heavy with clay. But he went on
persistently, like a wind, straight forward, as if to his fate.
There were great gaps in his consciousness. He was con-
scious that he was at Winthorpe hamlet, but quite uncon-
scious how he had got there. And then, as in a dream, he
was in the long street of Beldover, with its street-lamps.

There was a noise of voices, and of a door shutting loudly,
and being barred, and of men talking in the night. The
‘‘ Lord Nelson ’? had just closed, and the drinkers were
going home. He had better ask one of these where she
lived—for he did not know the side streets at all.

‘© Can you tell me where Somerset Drive is ?’’ he asked of
one of the uneven men.

‘© Where what ?”’ replied the tipsy miner’s voice.

‘© Somerset Drive.”’

‘* Somerset Drive !—I’ve heard 0’ such a place, but I
couldn’t for my life say where it is. Who might you be
wanting ?”’

‘‘ Mr Brangwen—William Brangwen.”’

‘* William Brangwen— ?—? ”

‘‘ Who teaches at the Grammar School, at Willey Green—
his daughter teaches there too.”

‘< Q0-o-0-oh, Brangwen! Now I’ve got you. Of course,
William Brangwen! Yes, yes, he’s got two lasses as
teachers, aside hisself. Ay, that’s him—that’s him! Why
certainly I know where he lives, back your life ldo! Yi—
what place do they ca’ it?”

‘“* Somerset Drive,’ repeated Gerald patiently. He knew
his own colliers fairly well.

DEATH AND LOVE. 359

** Somerset Drive, for certain ! ’’ said the collier, swinging
his arm as if catching something up. ‘* Somerset Drive—
yi! I couldn’t for my life lay hold o’ the lercality o’ the
place. Yis, I know the place, to be sure I do— ”

He turned unsteadily on his feet, and pointed up the dark,
nigh-deserted road.

** You go up theer—an’ you ta’e th’ first—yi, th’ first
turnin’ on your left—o’ that side—past Withamses tuffy
shop— ”’

** I know,”’’ said Gerald.

“Ay! You go down a bit, past wheer th’ water-man
lives—and then Somerset Drive, as they ca’ it, branches off
on *t right hand side—an’ there’s nowt but three houses in
it, no more than three, I believe,—an’ I’m a’most certain
as theirs is th’ last—th’ last o’ th’ three—you see— ”’

** Thank you very much,” said Gerald. ‘‘ Good-night.’’

And he started off, leaving the tipsy man there standing
rooted. _

Gerald went past the dark shops and houses, most of them
sleeping now, and twisted round to the little blind road that
ended on a field of darkness. He slowed down, as he
neared his goal, not knowing how he should proceed. What
if the house were closed in darkness?

But it was not. He saw a big lighted window, and heard
voices, then a gate banged. His quick ears caught the
sound of Birkin’s voice, his keen eyes made out Birkin, with
Ursula standing in a pale dress on the step of the garden
path. Then Ursula stepped down, and came along the
road, holding Birkin’s arm.

Gerald went across into the darkness and they dawdled
past him, talking happily, Birkin’s voice low, Ursula’s high
and distinct. Gerald went quickly to the house.

The blinds were drawn before the big, lighted window of
the dining-room. Looking up the path at the side he could
see the door left open, shedding a soft, coloured light from
the hall lamp. He went quickly and silently up the path,
and looked up into the hall. There were pictures on the
walls, and the antlers of a stag—and the stairs going up on
one side—and just near the foot of the stairs the half opened
door of the dining-room.

With heart drawn fine, Gerald stepped into the hall,
whose floor was of coloured tiles, went quickly and
looked into the large, pleasant room. In a chair by the

80° WOMEN IN LOVE”

fire, the father sat asleep, his head tilted back against
the side of the big oak chimney piece, his ruddy face
seen fore-shortened, the nostrils open, the mouth fallen a
little. It would take the merest sound to wake him.

Gerald stood a second suspended. He glanced down the
passage behind him. It was all dark. Again he was sus-
pended. Then he went swiftly upstairs. His senses were so
finely, almost supernaturally keen, that he seemed to cast
his own will over the half-unconscious house. |

He came to the first landing. There he stood, scarcely
breathing. Again, corresponding to the door below, there
was a door again. That would be the mother’s room. He
could hear her moving about in the candle-light. She would
be expecting her husband to come up. He looked along the
dark landing.

Then, silently, on infinitely careful feet, he went along the
passage, feeling the wall with the extreme tips of his fin-
gers. There was a door. He stood and listened. He
could hear two people’s breathing. It was not that. He
went stealthily forward. There was another door, slightly
open. The room was in darkness. Empty. Then there
was the bathroom, he could smell the soap and the heat.
Then at the end another bedroom—one soft breathing. This
was she. .

With an almost occult carefulness he turned the door.
handle, and opened the ‘door an inch. It creaked slightly.
Then he opened it another inch—then another. His heart
did not beat, he seemed to create a silence about himself, an ~
obliviousness.

He was in the-room. Still the sleeper breathed softly.
It was very dark. He felt his way forward inch by inch,
with his feet and hands. He touched the bed, he could hear
the sleeper. He drew nearer, bending close as if his eyes
would disclose whatever there was. _ And then, very near
to his face, te his fear, he saw the round, dark head of a»boy.

He recovered, turned round, saw the door afar, a faint
light revealed. And he retreated swiftly, drew the door to
without fastening it, and passed rapidly down the passage.
At the head of the stairs he hesitated. There was still time
to flee.

But it was unthinkable. He would maintain his will.
He turned past the door of the parental bedroom like a
shadow, and was climbing the second flight of stairs. They

DEATH AND LOVE 361
creaked under his weight—it was exasperating. Ah what
disaster, if the mother’s door opened just beneath him, and
she saw him! It would have to be, if it were so. He held
the control still.

He was not quite up these stairs when he heard a quick
running of feet below, the outer door was closed and locked,
he heard Ursula’s voice, then the father’s sleepy exclama-
tion. He pressed on swiftly to the upper landing.

Again a door was ajar, a room was empty. Feeling his
way forward, with the tips of his fingers, travelling rapidly,
like a blind man, anxious lest Ursula should come upstairs,
he found another door. There, with his preternaturally fine
senses alert, he listened. He heard someone moving in bed.
This would ‘be she.

Softly now, like one who has only one sense, the tactile
sense, he turned the latch. Itclicked. He held still. The
bed-clothes rustled. His heart did not beat. Then again
he drew the latch back, and very gently pushed the door.
It made a sticking noise as it gave.

** Ursula?’’ said Gudrun’s voice, frightened. He quickly
opened the door and pushed it behind him.

** Is it you, Ursula?’? came Gudrun’s frightened voice.
He heard her sitting up in bed. In another moment she
would scream.

** No, it’s me,”’ he said, feeling his way towards her. ‘°° It
is I, Gerald.”’

She sat motionless in her bed in sheer astonishment. She
was too astonished, too much taken by surprise, even to be
afraid.

** Gerald ! ’* she echoed, in blank amazement. He had
found his way to the bed, and his outstretched hand
touched her warm breast blindly. She shrank away.

** Let me make a light,”’ she said, springing out.

He stood perfectly motionless. He heard her touch the
match-box, he heard her fingers in their movement. Then
he saw her in the light of a match, which she held to the
candle. The light rose in the room, then sank to a small
dimness, as the flame sank down on the candle, before it
mounted again.

She looked at him, as he stood near the other side of the
bed. His cap was pulled low over his brow, his black over-
-eoat was buttoned close up to his chin. His face was
strange and luminous. He was inevitable as a supernatural

d Net Tp tor bis rae) {hare fa) a Tay it eae

Bee Jog
od

362 WOMEN IN LOVE |
being. When she had seen him, she knew. She knew there
_ was something fatal in the situation, and she must accept it.
Yet she must challenge him.

** How did you come up ?”’ she asked.

** T walked up the stairs—the door was open.’’

She looked at him.

**T haven’t closed this door, either,”? he said. She
walked swiftly across the room, and closed her door, softly,
and locked it. Then she came back.

She was wonderful, with startled eyes and flushed cheeks,
and her plait of hair rather short and thick down her back,
and her long, fine white night-dress falling to her feet.

She saw that his boots were all clayey, even his trousers
were plastered with clay. And she wondered if he had made
footprints all the way up. He was a very strange figure,
standing in her bedroom, near the tossed bed.

** Why have you come ?’’ she asked, almost querulous.

** I wanted to,’’ he replied.

And this she could see from his face. It was fate.

** You are so muddy,” she said, in distaste, but gently.

He looked down at his feet.

** IT was walking in the dark,’’ he replied. But he felt
vividly elated. There was a pause. He stood on one side
of the tumbled bed, she on the other. He did not even
take his cap from his brows.

** And what do you want of me,”’ she challenged.

He looked aside, and did not answer. Save for the ex-
treme beauty and mystic attractiveness. of this . distinct,
strange face, she would have sent him away. But his face
was too wonderful and undiscovered to her. It fascinated
her with the fascination of pure beauty, cast a spell on her,
like nostalgia, an ache.

** What do you want of me ?”’ she repeated in an estranged
voice.

He pulled off his cap, in a movement of dream-liberation,
and went across to her. But he could not touch her, be-
cause she stood barefoot in her night-dress, and he was
muddy and damp. Her eyes, wide and large and wonder-
ing, watched him, and asked him the ultimate question.

** T came—because I must,’’ he said. ‘* Why do you
ask ???

She looked at him in doubt and wonder.

‘© T must ask,’’ she said.

DEATH AND LOVE 363

He shook his head slightly.

** There is no answer,’’ he replied, with strange
vacancy.

There was about him a curious, and almost godlike air of
simplicity and naive directness. He reminded her of an
apparition, the young Hermes.

** But why did you come to me?” she persisted. ©

** Because—it has to be so. If there weren’t you in the
world, then I shouldn’t be in the world, either.’

She stood looking at him, with large, wide, wondering,
stricken eyes. His eyes were looking steadily into hers all
the time, and he seemed fixed in an odd supernatural stead-
fastness. She sighed. She was lost now. She had no
choice.

** Won’t you take off your boots,” she said. ‘* They
must be wet.”’

He dropped his cap on a chair, unbuttoned his overcoat,
lifting up his chin to unfasten the throat buttons. His
short, keen hair was ruffled. He was so beautifully blond,
like wheat. He pulled off his overcoat.

Quickly he pulled off his jacket, pulled loose his black tie,
and was unfastening his studs, which were headed each with
a pearl. She listened, watching, hoping no one would hear
the starched linen crackle. It seemed to snap like pistol-
shots.

He had come for vindication. She let him hold her in his
arms, clasp her close against him. He found in her an in-
finite relief. Into her he poured all his pent-up darkness
and corrosive death, and he was whole again. It was won-
derful, marvellous, it was a miracle. This was the ever-
recurrent miracle of his life, at the knowledge of which he
. was lost in an ecstasy of relief and wonder. And she, sub-
ject, received him as a vessel filled with his bitter potion of
death. She had no power at this crisis to resist. The
terrible frictional violence of death filled her, and she re-
ceived it in an ecstasy of subjection, in throes of acute,
violent sensation.

As he drew nearer to her, he plunged deeper into her en-
veloping soft warmth, a wonderful creative heat that pene-
trated his veins and gave him life again. He felt himself
dissolving and sinking to rest in the bath of her living
strength. It seemed as if her heart in her breast were a
second unconquerable sun, into the glow and creative

364 WOMEN IN LOVE

strength of which he plunged further and further. All his
veins, that were murdered and lacerated, healed softly as
life came pulsing in, stealing invisibly in to him as if it were
the all-powerful effluence of the sun. His blood, which
seemed to have been drawn back into death, came ebbing
on the return, surely, beautifully, powerfully.

He felt his limbs growing fuller and flexible with life, his
body gained an unknown strength. He was a man again,
strong and rounded. And he was a child, so soothed and ~
restored and full of gratitude.

And she, she was the great bath of life, he worshipped her.
Mother and substance of_all life she was. And he, child and
man, received of her and was made whole. His pure body
was almost killed. But the miraculous, soft effluence of her
breast suffused over him, over his seared, damaged brain,
like a healing lymph, like a soft, soothing flow of life itself,
perfect as if he were bathed in the womb again.

His brain was hurt, seared, the tissue was as if destroyed.
He had not known how hurt he was, how his tissue, the very
tissue of his brain was damaged by the corrosive flood of
death. Now, as the healing lymph of her effluence flowed
through him, he knew how destroyed he was, like a plant
whose tissue is burst from inwards by a frost.

He buried his small, hard head between her breasts, and
pressed her breasts against him with his hands. And she
with quivering hands pressed his head against her, as he lay
suffused out, and she lay fully conscious. The lovely
creative warmth fiooded through him like a sleep of fecun-
dity within the womb. Ah, if only she would grant him the
flow of this living effluence, he would be restored, he would
be complete again. He was afraid she would deny him
before it was finished. Like a child at the breast, he cleaved
intensely to her, and she could not put him away. And his
seared, ruined membrane relaxed, softened, that which was
seared and stiff and blasted yielded again, became soft and
flexible, palpitating with new life. He was infinitely grate-
ful, as to God, or as an infant is at its mother’s breast. He
was glad and grateful like a delirium, as he felt his own
wholeness come over him again, as he felt the full, unutter-
able sleep coming over him, the sleep of complete exhaus-
tion and restoration.

But Gudrun lay wide awake, destroyed into perfect con-
sciousness, © She lay motionless, with wide eyes staring

Zoe OR ART or. Coe yi eee ese hb ole a am Ure AS eR gay
‘ TUR i hoes vhs a e Baths idk DIRE t Arron ‘er
Bt a, ihe We Sa :

, ¥ i

DEATH AND LOVE 365
motionless into the darkness, whilst he was sunk away in
sleep, his arms round her.

She seemed to be hearing waves break on a hidden shore,
long, slow, gloomy waves, breaking with the rhythm of fate,
so monotonously that it seemed eternal. This endless
breaking of slow, sullen waves of fate held her life a posses-
sion, whilst she lay with dark, wide eyes looking into the
darkness. She could see so far, as far as eternity—yet she
saw nothing. She was suspended in perfect consciousness—
and of what was she conscious?

This mood of extremity, when she lay staring into eter-
nity, utterly suspended, and conscious of everything, to the
last limits, passed and left her uneasy. She had lain so long
motionless. She moved, she became self-conscious. She
wanted to look at him, to see him.

But she dared not make a light, because she knew he
would wake, and she did not want to break his perfect sleep,
that she knew he had got of her.

She disengaged herself, softly, and rose up a little to look

at him. There was a faint light, it seemed to her, in the
room. She could just distinguish his features, as he slept
the perfect sleep. In this darkness, she seemed to see him
so distinctly. But he was far off, in another world. Ah,
she could shriek with torment, he was so far off, and per-
fected, in another world. She seemed to look at him as at
a pebble far away under clear dark water. And here was
she, left with all the anguish of consciousness, whilst he was
sunk deep into the other element of mindless, remote, living
shadow-gleam. He was beautiful, far-off, and perfected.
They would never be together. Ah, this awful, inhuman
distance which would always be interposed between her and
the other being !
- There was nothing to do but to lie still and endure. She
felt an overwhelming tenderness for him, and a dark, under-
stirring of jealous hatred, that he should lie so perfect and
immune, in an otherworld, whilst she was tormented with
violent wakefulness, cast out in the outer darkness.

She lay in intense and vivid consciousness, an exhausting
superconsciousness. The church clock struck the hours, it
seemed to her, in quick succession. She heard them
distinctly in the tension of her vivid consciousness.
And he slept as if time were one moment, unchanging and
unmoving.

366 WOMENINLOVE

She was exhausted, wearied. Yet she must continue in
this state of violent active superconsciousness. She was
conscious of everything—her childhood, her girlhood, all the
forgotten incidents, all the unrealised influences and all the
happenings she had not understood, pertaining to herself, to
her family, to her friends, her lovers, her acquaintances,
everybody. It was as if she drew a glittering rope of know-
ledge out of the sea of darkness, drew and drew and drew
it out of the fathomless depths of the past, and still it did
not come to an end, there was no end to it, she must haul
and haul at the rope of glittering consciousness, pull it out
phosphorescent from the endless depths of the unconscious-
ness, till she was weary, aching, exhausted, and fit to break,
and yet she had not done.

Ah, if only she might wake him! She turned uneasily.
When could she rouse him and send him away? When
could she disturb him? And she relapsed into her activity
of automatic consciousness, that would never end.

But the time was drawing near when she could wake him.
It was like a release. The clock had struck four, outside in
the night. Thank God the night had passed almost away.
At five he must go, and she would be released. Then she
could relax and fill her own place. Now she was driven up
against his perfect sleeping motion like a knife white-hot on
a grindstone. There was something monstrous about him,
about his juxtaposition against her.

The last hour was the longest. And yet, at last it passed.
Her heart leapt with relief—yes, there was the slow, strong
stroke of the church clock—at last, after this night of eter-
nity. She waited to catch each slow, fatal reverberation.
** Three four five!’ There, it was finished. A
weight rolled off her.

She raised herself, leaned over him tenderly, and kissed.
him. She was sad to wake him. After afew moments, she
kissed him again. But he did not stir. The darling, he was
so deep in sleep! What ashame to take him out of it. She
let him lie a little longer. But he must go—he must really

0.
2 With full over-tenderness she took his face between her
hands, and kissed his eyes. The eyes opened, he remained
motionless, looking at her. Her heart stood still. To hide
her face from his dreadful opened eyes, in the darkness,
she bent down and kissed him, whispering :

oe DEATH AND LOVE _ 867

** You must go, my love.”’

But she was sick with terror, sick.

He put his arms round her. Her heart sank.

** But you must go, my love. It’s late.”’

** What time is it P’’ he said.

Strange, his man’s voice, She quivered. It was an in-
tolerable oppression to her,

** Past five o’clock,’’ she said.

But he only closed his arms round her again. Her heart
cried within her in torture. She disengaged herself firmly.

** You really must go,’’ she said.

** Not for a minute,”’ he said.

She lay still, nestling against him, but unyielding.

** Not for a minute,’ he repeated, clasping her closer.

** Yes,”’ she said, unyielding. ‘‘ I’m afraid if you stay
any longer.”’

There was a certain coldness in her voice that made him
release her, and she broke away, rose and lit the candle.
That then was the end.

He got up. He was warm and full of life and desire. Yet
he felt a little bit ashamed, humiliated, putting on his
clothes before her, in the candle-light. For he felt revealed,
exposed to her, at a time when she was in some way against
him. It was all very difficult to understand. He dressed
himself quickly, without collar or tie. Still he felt full and
complete, perfected. She thought it humiliating to see a
man dressing : the ridiculous shirt, the ridiculous trousers
and braces. But again an idea saved her.

** It is like a workman getting up to go to work,’’ thought
Gudrun. ‘* And I am like a workman’s wife.’? But an
ache like nausea was upon her : a nausea of him.

He pushed his collar and tie into his overcoat pocket.
Then he sat down and pulled on his boots. They were
sodden, as were his socks and trouser-bottoms. But he
himself was quick and warm.

** Perhaps you ought to have put your boots on down-
stairs,’’ she said.

At once, without answering, he pulled them off again, and
stood holding them in his hand. She had thrust her feet
into slippers, and flung a loose robe round her. She was
ready. She looked at him as he stood waiting, his black
coat buttoned to the chin, his cap pulled down, his boots in
his hand. And the passionate almost hateful fascination re-

368 WOMEN IN LOVE ail

vived in her for a moment. It was not exhausted. His
face was so warm-looking, wide-eyed and full of newness, so
perfect. She felt old, old. She went to him heavily, to be
kissed. He kissed her quickly. She wished his warm, ex-
pressionless beauty did not so fatally put a spell on her, com-
pel her and subjugate her. It was a burden upon her, that
she resented, but could not escape. Yet when she looked at
his straight man’s brows, and at his rather small, well-
shaped nose, and at his blue, indifferent eyes, she knew her
passion for him was not yet satisfied, perhaps never could
be satisfied. Only now she was weary, with an ache like
nausea. She wanted him gone.

They went downstairs quickly. It seemed they made a
prodigious noise. He followed her as, wrapped in her vivid

green wrap, she preceded him with the light. She suffered
' badly with fear, lest her people should be roused. He
hardly cared. He did not care now who knew. And she
hated this in him. One must be cautious. One must pre-
serve oneself.

She led the way to the kiveheu: It was neat and tidy,
as the woman had left it. He looked up at the clock—
twenty minutes past five! Then he sat down on a chair to
put on his boots. She waited, watching his every move-
ment. She wanted it to be over, it was a great nervous
strain on her. |

He stood up—she unbolted the back door, and looked out.
A cold, raw night, not yet dawn, with a piece of a moon in
the vague sky. She was glad she need not go out.

** Good-bye then,”’ he murmured.

** Tl] come to the gate,”’ she said.

And again she hurried on in front, to warn him of the
steps. And at the gate, once more she stood on the step
whilst he stood below her.

** Good-bye,’’ she whispered.

He kissed her dutifully, and turned away.

She suffered torments hearing his firm tread going so dis-
tinctly down the road. Ah, the insensitiveness of that firm
tread !

She closed the gate, and crept quickly and noiselessly
back to bed. When she was in her room, and the door
closed, and all safe, she breathed freely, and a great weight
fell off her. She nestled down in bed, in the groove his
body had made, in the warmth he had ‘left. And excited,

| eC ceackly A uel the raw dakueoe of sche st o
1ing dawn) ‘He met nobody. His mind was beautifully
and thoughtless, like a still pool, and his body full and

varm and rich. He went quickly along towards Shortlands, cm
na pratetul self-sufficiency. f a

CHAP: XXV. MARRIAGE OR NOT

THE Brangwen family was going to move from Beldover. It
was necessary now for the father to be in town. ;

Birkin had taken out a marriage licence, yet Ursula de-
ferred from day to day. She would not fix any definite
time—she still wavered. Her month’s notice to leave the
Grammar School was in its third week. Christmas was not
far off.

Gerald waited for the Ursula-Birkin marriage. It was
something crucial to him.

** Shall we make it a double-barrelled affair ?’’ he said to
Birkin one day.

** Who for the second shot ?’’ asked Birkin.

** Gudrun and me,”’ said Gerald, the venturesome twinkle
in his eyes.

Birkin looked at him steadily, as if somewhat taken aback.

** Serious—-or joking ?’’ he asked.

** Oh, serious. Shall I? Shall Gudrun and I rush in
along with you ?”’

** Do by all means,”’ said Birkin. ‘I didn’t know you’d
got that length.”

** What length ?’’ said Gerald, looking at the other man,
and laughing.

** Oh yes, we’ve gone all the lengths.”’

‘* There remains to put it on a broad social basis, and to
achieve a high moral purpose,”’ said Birkin.

** Something like that : the length and breadth and height
of it,’’ replied Gerald, smiling.

** Oh well,’’ said Birkin, ‘‘ it’s a very admirable step to
take, I should say.”’

Gerald looked at him closely.

** Why aren’t you enthusiastic??? he asked. ‘‘ I thought
you were such dead nuts on marriage.”’

Birkin lifted his shoulders.

** One might as well be dead nuts on noses. There are
all sorts of noses, snub and otherwise— ”’

Gerald laughed.

‘© And all sorts of marriage, also snub and otherwise ?’’ he
said. Uy

370

MARRIAGE OR NOT 371

** That’s it.”’

** And you think if I marry, it will be snub ?’’ asked
Gerald quizzically, his head a little on one side.

Birkin laughed quickly.

** How do I know what it will be!’’ he said. ‘* Don’t
lambaste me with my own parallels— ’’

Gerald pondered a while.

** But I should like to know your opinion, exactly,’’ he
said.

**On your marriage ?—or marrying? Why should you
want my opinion? I’ve got no opinions. I’m not interest-
ed in legal marriage, one way ‘Or another. It’s a mere
question of convenience.’

Still Gerald watched him closely.

* More than that, I think,’’ he said seriously. ** How-
ever you may be bored by the ethics of marriage, yet really
to marry; in one’s own personal case, is something critical,
final—

“You mean there is something final in going to the regis-
trar with a woman t Par

Sat you’re coming back with her, I do,” said Gerald:
** It is in some way irrevocable.”’

** Yes, I agree,’’ said Birkin.

** No matter how one regards legal marriage, yet to enter
into the married state, in one’s own personal instance, is
final—

‘* I believe it is,’’ said Birkin, ** somewhere.’

‘* The question remains then, should one do. it,’’ said
Gerald.

Birkin watched him narrowly, with amused eyes.

** You are like Lord Bacon, Gerald,’’ he said. ‘* You
argue it like a lawyer—or like Hamlet’s to-be-or-not-to-be.
If I were you I would not marry : but ask Gudrun, not me.
You’re not marrying me, are you?”’

Gerald did not heed the latter part of _ this
speech.

‘* Yes,’ he said, ‘‘ one must consider it coldly. It is
something critical. One comes to the point where one must
take a step in one direction or another. And marriage is
one direction— ”’

** And what is the other?” asked Birkin quickly.

Gerald locked up at him with hot, strangely-conscious
eyes, that the other man could not understand.

372 WOMEN IN LOVE

**T can’t say,’’ he replied. ‘‘If I knew that—” He
moved uneasily on his feet, and did not finish. :
** You mean if you knew the alternative ?’’ asked Birkin.

** And since you don’t know it, marriage is a pis aller.”’

Gerald looked up at Birkin with the same hot, constrained
eyes.

** One does have the feeling that marriage is a pis aller,”
he admitted.

** Then don’t do it,’ said Birkin. ‘I tell you,’’ he went
on, ‘* the same as I’ve said before, marriage in the old sense
seems to me repulsive. Egoisme a deuw is nothing to it.
It’s a sort of tacit hunting in couples: the world all in
couples, each couple in its own little house, watching its own —
little interests, and stewing in its own little privacy—it’s the
most repulsive thing on earth.”’

**T quite agree,’’ said Gerald. ‘* There’s something in-
ferior about it. But as I say, what’s the alternative.”

** One should avoid this home instinct. It’s not an in-
stinct, it’s a habit of cowardliness. One should never have
a home.’’

**T agree really,’’ said Gerald. ‘* But there’s no alterna-
tive.”’

** We’ve got to find one. I do believe in a permanent
union between a man and a woman. Chopping about is
merely an exhaustive process. But a permanent relation
between a man and a woman isn’t the last word—it cer-
tainly isn’t.”’

** Quite,’’ said Gerald.

‘© In fact,’’ said Birkin, *‘ because the relation between
man and woman is made the supreme and exclusive relation-_
ship, that’s where all the tightness and meanness and in-
sufficiency comes in.”’ )

‘* Yes, I believe you,’”’ said Gerald. 3

““ You’ve got to take down the love-and-marriage ideal
from its pedestal. We want something broader. I believe
in the additional perfect relationship between man and man
—additional to marriage.”’ 7

‘‘T can never see how they can be the same,”’ said
Gerald. |

‘* Not the same—but equally important, equally creative,
equally sacred, if you like.”’

‘‘T know,” said Gerald, ‘‘ you believe something like
that. Only I can’t feel it, you see.” He put his hand on

MARRIAGE OR NOT 373

_ Birkin’s arm, with a sort of deprecating affection. And he

‘smiled as if triumphantly.

He was ready to be doomed. Marriage was like a doom
to him. He was willing to condemn himself in marriage, to
become like a convict condemned to the mines of the under-
world, living no life in the sun, but having a dreadful sub-
terranean activity. He was willing to accept this. And.
_ marriage was the seal of his condemnation. He was willing
- to be sealed thus in the underworld, like a soul damned but
living forever in damnation. But he would not make any
pure relationship with any other soul. He could not.
Marriage was not the committing of himself into a relation-
ship with Gudrun. It was a committing of himself in ac-
ceptance of the established world, he would accept the estab-
lished order, in which he did not livingly believe, and then
he would retreat to the underworld for his life. This he
would do.

The other way was to accept Rupert’s offer of alliance,
to enter into the bond of pure trust and love with the other
man, and then subsequently with the woman. If he pledged
himself with the man he would later be able to pledge him-
self with the woman : not merely in legal marriage, but in
absolute, mystic marriage.

Yet he could not accept the offer. There was a numbness
upon him, a numbness either of unborn, absent volition, or
of atrophy. Perhaps it was the absence of volition. For he
was strangely elated at Rupert’s offer. Yet he was still
more glad tc reject it, not to be committed.

CHAP : XXVI. A CHAIR

THERE was a jumble market every Monday afternoon in the
old market-place in town. Ursula and Birkin strayed down
there one afternoon. They had been talking of furniture,
and they wanted to see if there was any fragment they
would like to buy, amid the heaps of rubbish collected on
the cobble-stones.

The old market-square was not very large, a mere bare
patch of granite setts, usually with a few fruit-stalls under
a wall. It was in a poor quarter of the town. Meagre
houses stood down one side, there was a hosiery factory, a
great blank with myriad oblong windows, at the end, a
street of little shops with flagstone pavement down the other
side, and, for a crowning monument, the public baths, of
new red brick, with a clock-tower. The people who moved
about seemed stumpy and sordid, the air seemed to smell
rather dirty, there was a sense of many mean streets rami-
fying off inte warrens of meanness. Now and again a great
chocolate-and-yellow tramcar ground round a difficult bend
under the hosiery factory.

Ursula was superficially thrilled when she found herself
out among the common people, in the jumbled place piled
with old bedding, heaps of old iron, shabby crockery in pale
lots, muffled lots of unthinkable clothing. She and Birkin
went unwillingly down the narrow aisle between the rusty
wares. He was looking at the goods, she at the people.

She excitedly watched a young woman, who was going to
have a baby, and who was turning over a mattress and mak-
ing a young man, down-at-heel and dejected, feel it also. So
secretive and active and anxious the young woman seemed,
so reluctant, slinking, the young man. He was going to
marry her because she was having a child. .

When they had felt the mattress, the young woman asked
the old man seated on a stool among his wares, how much it
was. He told her, and she turned to the young man. The
latter was ashamed, and self-conscious. He turned his face
away, though he left his body standing there, and muttered
aside. And again the woman anxiously and actively fin-

gered the mattress and added up in her mind and bargainee¢ -

374

Sa tae Pr al

A CHAIR 875

with the old, unclean man. All the while, the young man
stood by, shamefaced and down-at-heel, submitting.

** Look,’’ said Birkin, ‘‘ there is a pretty chair.”’

** Charming! ’’ cried Ursula. ‘*‘ Oh, charming.”’

It was an arm-chair of simple wood, probably birch, but
of such fine delicacy of grace, standing there on the sordid

stones, it almost brought tears to the eyes. It was square

in shape, of the purest, slender lines, and four short lines of
wood in the back, that reminded Ursula of harpstrings.

** It was once,” said Birkin, ‘* gilded—and it had a cane
seat. Somebody has nailed this wooden seat in. Look,
here is a trifle of the red that underlay the gilt. The rest is
all black, except where the wood is worn pure and glossy.
It is the fine unity of the lines that is so attractive. Look,
how they run and meet and counteract. But of course the
wooden seat is wrong—it destroys the perfect lightness and
unity in tension the cane gave. I like it though— ”’

** Ah yes,’’ said Ursula, ‘* so do I.”’

** How much is it??? Birkin asked the man.

** Ten shillings.”’

** And you will send it— ?”’’

It was bought.

**So beautiful, so pure! ’’ Birkin said. ‘‘It almost
breaks my heart.’? They walked along between the heaps
of rubbish. ‘‘ My beloved country—it had something to
express even when it made that chair.”’

** And hasn’t it now??? asked Ursula. She was always
angry when he took this tone. |

** No, it hasn’t. When I see that clear, beautiful chair,
and I think of England, even Jane Austen’s England—it
had living thoughts to unfold even then, and pure happiness
in unfolding them. And now, we can only fish among the
rubbish heaps for the remnants of their old expression.
There is no production in us now, only sordid and foul
mechanicalness.”’

** It isn’t true,’’ cried Ursula. ‘* Why must you always
praise the past, at the expense of the present? Really, I
don’t think so much of Jane Austen’s England. It was
materialistic enough, if you like— ”’

** Tt could afford to be materialistic,’ said Birkin, ‘* be-
cause it had the power to be something other—which we
hayen’t. We are materialistic because we haven’t the
power to be anything else—try as we may, we can’t bring

376 WOMEN IN LOVE

off anything but materialism : mechanism, the very soul of
materialism.””

Ursula was subdued into angry silence. She did not heed
what he said. She was rebelling against something else.

** And I hate your past. I’m sick of it,’? she cried. ‘I
believe I even hate that old chair, though it is beautiful. It
isn’t my sort of beauty. I wish it had been smashed up
when its day was over, not left to preach the beloved past
to us. I’m sick of the beloved past.”

GER, eras oo lariat)
7 Z eee “ e past
Se boy

** Not so sick as I am of the accursed present,’’ he said. -

** Yes, just the same. I hate the present—but I don’t
want the past to take its place—I don’t want that old
chair.’’

He was rather angry for a moment. Then he looked at |

the sky shining beyond the tower of the public baths, and
he seemed to get over it all. He laughed.

** All right,”’ he said, ** then let us not have it. I’m sick
of it all, too. At any rate one can’t go on living on the old
bones of beauty.”’

** One can’t,’’ she cried. ‘* I don’t want old things.”’

** The truth is, we don’t want things at all,’’ he replied.
** The thought of a house and furniture of my own is hate-
ful to me.”’

This startled her for a moment. Then she replied :

** So it is to me. But one must live somewhere.”’

** Not somewhere—anywhere,”’ he said. ** One should
just live anywhere—not have a definite place. I don’t want
a definite place. As soon as you get a room, and it is
complete, you want to run from it. Now my rooms at the
Mill are quite complete, I want them at the bottom of the
sea. It is a horrible tyranny of a fixed milieu, where each
piece of furniture is a commandment-stone.”’

She clung to his arm as they walked away from the
market. |

‘** But what are we going to do?”’ she said. ‘* We must

live somehow. And I do want some beauty in my sur-—

roundings. I want a sort of natural grandewr even,
splendour.”’ . ;

** You’ll never get it in houses and furniture—or even
clothes. Houses and furniture and clothes, they are all
terms of an old base world, a detestable society of man.
And if you have a Tudor house and old, beautiful furniture,
it is only the past perpetuated on top of you, horrible. And

a A CHAIR oc a ai

if you have a perfect modern house done for you by Poiret,
it is something else perpetuated on top of you. It is all
horrible. It is all possessions, possessions, bullying you and
turning you into a generalisation. You have to be like
Rodin, Michael Angelo, and leave a piece of raw rock un-
finished to your figure. You must leave your surroundings
sketchy, unfinished, so that you are never contained, never
confined, never dominated from the outside.”’

She stood in the street contemplating.

** And we are never to have a complete place of our own—
never a home ?”’ she said.

** Pray God, in this world, no,’’ he answered.

-** But there’s only this world,’’ she objected.

He spread out his hands with a gesture of indifference.

** Meanwhile, then, we’ll avoid having things of our own,”’
he said.

** But you’ve just bought a chair,’’ she said.

** I can tell the man I don’t want it,’”’ he replied.

She pondered again. Then a queer little movement
twitched her face.

** No,’”’ she said, ‘* we don’t want it. I’m sick of old
things.”’

** New ones as well,’’ he said.

They retraced their steps.

There—in front of some furniture, stood the young couple,
the woman who was going to have a baby, and the narrow-
faced youth. She was fair, rather short, stout. He was of
medium height, attractively built. His dark hair fell side-
ways over his brow, from under his cap, he stood strangely
aloof, like one of the damned.

** Let us give it to them,’’ whispered Ursula. ‘* Look
they are getting a home together.”’

** I won’t aid and abet them in it,”’ he said petulantly,
instantly sympathising with the aloof, furtive youth, against
the active, procreant female.

** Oh yes,”’ cried Ursula. ** It’s right for them—there’s
nothing else for them.’

** Very well,’’ said Birkin, “you offer it to them. I'll
watch.’

Ursula went rather nervously to the young couple, who
were discussing an iron washstand—or rather, the man was
glancing furtively and wonderingly, like a prisoner, at the’
abominable article, whilst the woman was arguing.

oe Pe oy Oe
a ' 2,

378 WOMEN IN LOVE

** We bought a chair,’’ said Ursula, ‘* and we don’t want
it. Would you have it? We should be glad if you
would.”’ :

The young couple looked round at her, not believing that
she could be addressing them.

** Would you care for it?’ repeated Ursula. ‘* It’s really
very pretty—but—but— ”’ she smiled rather dazzlingly.

The young couple only stared at her, and looked signifi-
cantly at each other, to know what to do. And the man
curiously obliterated himself, as if he could make himself
invisibie, as a rat can.

** We wanted to give it to you,’ explained Ursula, now
overcome with confusion and dread of them. She was
attracted by the young man. He was a still, mindless
creature, hardly a man at all, a creature that the towns have
produced, strangely pure-bred and fine in one sense, furtive,
quick, subtle. His lashes were dark and long and fine over
his eyes, that had no mind in them, only a dreadful kind of
subject, inward consciousness, glazed and dark. His dark
brows and all his lines, were finely drawn. He would be
a dreadful, but wonderful lover to a woman, so marvellously
contributed. His legs would be marvellously subtle and
alive, under the shapeless trousers, he had some of the fine-
ness and stillness and silkiness of a dark-eyed, silent rat.

Ursula had apprehended him with a fine frisson of attrac-
tion. The full-built woman was staring offensively. Again
Ursula forgot him.

** Won’t you have the chair ?”’ she said.

The man looked at her with a sideways look of apprecia-
tion, yet far-off, almost insolent. The woman drew herself
up. There was a certain coster-monger richness about her.
She did not know what Ursula was after, she was on her
guard, hostile. Birkin approached, smiling wickedly at see-
ing Ursula so nonplussed and frightened.

** What’s the matter?’ he said, smiling. His eyelids had»
dropped slightly, there was about him the same suggestive,
mocking secrecy that was in the bearing of the two city
creatures. The man jerked his head a little on one side, in-
dicating Ursula, and said, with curious amiable, jeering
warmth :

‘© What she warnt >—eh ?”? An odd smile writhed his lips.

Birkin looked at him from under his slack, ironical

eyelids.

2: Se

od cle 1c hea bo bce Re en ie, ee ee A > a ’ 4k 5
7 Yet Or igs bas L pk ae *
ak See niay teat

A CHAIR 379

** To give you a chair—that—-with the label on it,’’ he
said, pointing. |

The man looked at the object indicated. There was a
curious hostility in male, outlawed understanding between
the two men.

** What’s she warnt to give it us for, guvnor,”’ he replied,
in a tone of free intimacy that insulted Ursula.

** Thought you'd like it—it’s a pretty chair. We bought
it and don’t want it. No need for you to have it, don’t be
frightened,’’ said Birkin, with a wry smile.

The man glanced up at him, half inimical, half recognis-
ing.
** Why don’t you want it for yourselves, if you’ve just
bought it??? asked the woman coolly. ‘* ’Taint good
enough for you, now you’ve had a look at it. Frightened
it’s got something in it, eh? ”’

She was looking at Ursula, admiringly, but with some
resentment.

** I’d never thought of that,’’ said Birkin. ‘* But no, the
wood’s too thin everywhere.”’

** You see,’’ said Ursula, her face luminous and pleased.
** We are just going to get married, and we thought we’d
buy things. Then we decided, just now, that we wouldn’t
have furniture, we’d go abroad.”

The full-built, slightly blowsy city girl looked at the fine
face of the other woman, with appreciation. They appre-
ciated each other. The youth stood aside, his face ex-
pressionless and timeless, the thin line of the black mous-
tache drawn strangely suggestive over his rather wide,
closed mouth. He was impassive, abstract, like some dark
suggestive presence, a gutter-presence.

** It’s all right. to be some folks,’’ said the city girl, turn-
ing to herown young man. He did not look at her, but he
smiled with the lower part of his face, putting his head aside
in an odd gesture of assent. His eyes were unchanging,
glazed with darkness.

** Cawsts something to chynge your mind,’’ he said, in
an incredibly low accent.

** Only ten shillings this time,’’ said Birkin.

_ The man looked up at him with a grimace of a smile, fur-
tive, unsure.

** Cheap at ’arf a quid, guvnor,”’ he said. ‘* Not like
getting divawced.’’

380 WOMEN IN LOVE

** We’re not married yet,’’ said Birkin.

** No, no more aren’t we,’ said the young woman loudly. 4

** But we shall be, a Saturday. se

Again she looked at the young man with a determined, -

protective look, at once overbearing and very gentle. He )

grinned sicklily, turning away his head. She had got his
manhood, but Lord, what did he care! He had a strange
furtive pride and slinking singleness.

** Good luck to you,”’ said Birkin.

** Same to you,’’ said the young woman. Then, rather
tentatively : ‘‘ When’s yours coming off, then ?’’

Birkin looked round at Ursula.

** It’s for the lady to say,”’ he replied. ‘*‘ We go to the
registrar the moment she’s ready.”’

Ursula laughed, covered with confusion and bewilder-
ment.

** No ‘urry,’’ said the young man, grinning suggestive.

** Oh, don’t break your neck to get there,”’ said the young
woman. ‘* ’Slike when you’re dead—you’re a long time
married.”’

The young man turned aside as if this hit him.

** The longer the better, let us hope,’’ said Birkin.

** That’s it, guvnor,’’ said the young man admiringly.
** Enjoy it while it larsts—niver whip a dead donkey.’’

**Only when he’s shamming dead,’ said the young
woman, looking at her young man with caressive tenderness
of authority.

** Aw, there’s a difference,’’ he said satirically.

** What about the chair ?’’ said Birkin.

** Yes, all right,’’ said the woman.

They trailed off to the dealer, the handsome but abject
young fellow hanging a little aside.

** That’s it,’’ said Birkin. ‘* Will you take it with you,
or have the address altered.”’

** Oh, Fred can carry it. Make him do what he can for
the dear old ’ome.”’

‘‘ Mike use of ’im,’’ said Fred, grimly humorous, as he
took the chair from the dealer. His movements were
graceful, yet curiously abject, slinking. !

‘s ? Fire’ 8 mother’s cosy chair,’? he said. ‘* Warnts a
cushion.”? And he stood it down on the market stones.

‘Don’t you think it’s pretty ?”’ laughed Ursula.

** Oh, I do,’’ said the young woman.

2e
=| ee

JSR ah Nite
Ph ee ae “|

ACH MLR) 381

***Ave a sit in it, you'll wish you’d kept it,’’ said the
young man.

Ursula promptly sat down in the middle of the market-
place.

** Awfully comfortable,’’ she said. ‘* But rather hard.
You try it.”” She invited the young man to a seat. But he
turned uncouthly, awkwardly aside, glancing up at her with
quick bright eyes, oddly suggestive, like a quick, live rat.

** Don’t spoil him,”” said the young woman. ‘* He’s not
used to armchairs, ’e isn’t.’’

The young man turned away, and said, with averted grin :

** Only warnts legs on ’is.’

The four parted. The young woman thanked them.

** Thank you for the chair—it’ll last till it gives way.”’

** Keep it for an ornyment,”’ said the young man.

‘Good afternoon—good afternoon,’’ said Ursula and
Birkin.

** Goo’-luck to you,’’ said the young man, glancing and
avoiding Birkin’s eyes, as he turned aside his head.

The two couples went asunder, Ursula clinging to Birkin’s
arm. When they had gone some distance, she glanced back
and saw the young man going beside the full, easy young
woman. His trousers sank over his heels, he moved with
a sort of slinking evasion, more crushed with odd self-con-
sciousness now he had the slim old arm-chair to carry, his
arm over the back, the four fine, square tapering legs sway-
ing perilously near the granite setts of the pavement. And
yet he was somewhere indomitable and separate, like a
quick, vital rat. He had a queer, subterranean beauty, re-
pulsive too.

‘** How strange they are! *’ said Ursula;

** Children of men,’? he said. ‘‘ They remind me of
Jesus : ‘ The meek shall inherit the earth.’ ”’

** But they aren’t the meek,”’ said Ursula.

** Yes, I don’t know why, but they are,’’ he replied.

They waited for the tramcar. Ursula sat on top and
looked out on the town. The dusk was just dimming the
hollows of crowded houses.

** And are they going to inherit the earth?’’ she said.

** Yes—they.”’

‘* Then what are we going to do?’’ she asked. ‘* We’re
not like them—are we? We’re not the meek ?’’

** No. We’ve got to live in the chinks they leave us.’’

ea a

882 WOMEN IN LOVE

** How horrible! ’? cried Ursula. ‘* I don’t want to live
in chinks.’’

** Don’t worry,” he said. They are the children of
men, they like market-places and street-corners best. That
leaves plenty of chinks.”?

** All the world,”’’ she said.

** Ah no—but some room.”’

The tramear mounted slowly up the hill, where the hy
winter-grey masses of houses looked like a vision of hell that
is cold and angular. They sat and looked. Away in the
distance was an angry redness of sunset. It was all cold,
somehow small, crowded, and like the end of the world.

**T don’t mind it even then,’’ said Ursula, looking at the
repulsiveness of it all. ‘* It doesn’t concern me.”’

** No more it does,’’ he replied, holding her hand. ‘‘ One
needn’t see. One goes one’s way. In my world it is sunny
and spacious— ”’

** It is, my love, isn’t it ?’’ she cried, hugging near to him
on the top of the tramcar, so that the other passengers
stared at them. ,

** And we will wander about on the face of the earth,’’ he
said, ** and we’ll look at the world beyond just this bit.’’

There was a long silence. Her face was radiant like gold,
as she sat thinking.

** 1 don’t want to inherit the earth,’”’ she said. ‘‘ I don’t
want to inherit anything.’’

He closed his hand over hers.

** Neither do I. I want to be disinherited. a

She clasped his fingers closely.

** We won’t care about anything,’’ she said.

He sat still, and laughed.

** And we’ll be married, and have done with them,”’ she
added.

Again he laughed.

**Tt’s one way of getting rid of everything,” she said,
** to get married.”’

** And one way of accepting the whole world,’’ he added.

** A whole other world, yes,’’ she said happily.

** Perhaps there’s Gerald—and Gudrun— ”’ he said.

_ ** Tf there is there is, you see,’’ she said. ‘‘ It’s no good -
our worrying. We can’t really alter them, can we ?’’
** No,’’ he said. ‘* One has no right to try—not with the
best intentions in the world.’’

; A CHAIR 388

** Do you try to force them ?”? she asked.

** Perhaps,”’ he said. “* Why should I want him to be
free, if it isn’t his business ?”’

She paused for a time.

** We can’t make him happy, anyhow,”’ she said. ‘* He’d
have to be it of himself.”’

**T know,”’ he said. ‘* But we want other people with
us, don’t we ?’’ .

** Why should we ?”’ she asked.

**T don’t know,’’ he said uneasily. ‘‘ One has a hanker-
ing after a sort of further fellowship.”’

** But why?” she insisted. ‘* Why should you hanker
after other people? Why should you need them ?’”’

This hit him right on the quick. His brows knitted.

** Does it end with just our two selves ?’’ he asked, tense.

** Yes—what more do you want? If anybody likes to
come along, let them. But why must you run after
them ?”’

His face was tense and unsatisfied.

** You see,’ he said, ‘* I always imagine our being really
happy with some few other people—a little freedom with
people.”’

She pondered for a moment.

** Yes, one does want that. But it must happen. You
can’t do anything for it with your will. You always seem
to.think you can force the flowers to come out. People
must love us because they love us—you can’t make them.”’

**T know,”’ he said. ‘* But must one take no steps at
all? Must one just go as if one were alone in the world—
the only creature in the world ?”’

** You’ve got me,”’ she said. ‘** Why should you need
others? Why must you force people to agrere with you?
Why can’t you be single by yourself, as you are always
saying? You try to bully Gerald—as you tried to bully
Hermione. You must learn to be alone. And it’s so horrid
of you. You’ve got me. And yet you want to force other
people to love you as well. You do try to bully them to
love you. And even then, you don’t want their love.”’

His face was full of real perplexity.

** Don’t I?” he said. ‘* It’s the problem I can’t solve.
I know I want a perfect and complete relationship with
you : and we’ve nearly got it—we really have. But beyond
that. Do I want a real, ultimate relationship with Gerald ?

a
}y

with

CHAP: XXVIII. FLITTING

THat evening Ursula returned home very bright-eyed and
wondrous—which irritated her people. Her father came
home at supper-time, tired after the evening class, and the
long journey home. Gudrun was reading, the mother sat
in silence.

Suddenly Ursula said to the company at large, in a bright
voice, ‘* Rupert and I are going to be married to-morrow.”’

Her father turned round, stiffly.

** You what ?’’ he said.

** ‘To-morrow ! ’’ echoed Gudrun.

** Indeed ! ’? said the mother.

But Ursula only smiled wonderfully, and did not reply.

** Married to-morrow ! ’’ cried her father harshly. ‘* What
are you talking about.”’

** Yes,”’ said Ursula. ‘‘ Why not??? Those two words,
from her, always drove him mad. ‘‘ Everything is all right
—we shall go to the registrar’s office— ”’

There was a second’s hush in the room, after Ursula’s
blithe vagueness.

** Really, Ursula! ’’ said Gudrun.

** Might we ask why there has been all this secrecy ?”’
demanded the mother, rather superbly.

** But there hasn’t,’’ said Ursula. ‘* You knew.”’

**' Who knew?’’ now cried the father. ‘* Who knew?
What do you mean by your ‘ you knew ’? ”’

He was in one of his stupid rages, she instantly closed
against him.

** Of course you knew,”’ she said coolly. ‘* You knew we
were going to get married.”’ :

There was a dangerous pause.

** We knew you were going to get married, did we?

Knew! Why, does anybody know anything about you,
you shifty bitch ! ”’
_ ** Father!’ cried Gudrun, flushing deep in violent re-
monstrance. Then, in a cold, but gentle voice, as if to re-
mind her sister to be tractable: ‘* But isn’t it a fearfully
sudden decision, Ursula ?’’ she asked.

** No, not really,’’ replied Ursula, with the same mad-

28 385

B86 . WOMEN IN LOVE.

dening cheerfulness. ‘‘ He’s been wanting me to agree for
weeks—he’s had the licence ready. Only I—I wasn’t ready
in myself. Now I am ready—is there anything to be dis-

agreeable about ?’’ |

‘‘ Certainly not,’? said Gudrun, but in a tone of cold re-

roof. ‘* You are perfectly free to do as you like.*?

** * Ready in yourself ’—yourself, that’s all that matters,
isn’t it! ‘I wasn’t ready in myself,’ ’’ he mimicked her
phrase offensively. ‘* You and yourself, you’re of some im-
portance, aren’t you?”’

She drew herself up and set back her throat, her eyes
shining yellow and dangerous.

**T am to myself,’’ she said, wounded and mortified. ‘* I
know I am not to anybody else. You only wanted to bully
me—-you never cared for my happiness.’’

He was leaning forward watching her, his face intense like
a spark. .

** Ursula, what are you saying? Keep your tongue still,”
cried her mother.

Ursula swung round, and the lights in her eyes
flashed.

** No, I won’t,’’ she cried. ‘* I won’t hold my tongue
and be bullied. What does it matter which day I get mar-
ried—what does it matter! It doesn’t affect anybody but
myself.”’

Her father was tense and gathered together like a cat
about to spring.

** Doesn’t it?’’ he cried, coming nearer to her. She
shrank away.

** No, how can it ?”’ she replied, shrinking but stubborn.

** It doesn’t matter to me then, what you do—what be-
comes of you?’ he cried, in a strange voice like a cry.

The mother and Gudrun stood back as if hypnotised.

** No,’”’ stammered Ursula. Her father was very near to
her. ‘* You only want to me

She knew it was dangerous, and she stopped. He was
gathered together, every muscle ready.

** What ?”’ he challenged.

‘© Bully me,’? she muttered, and even as her lips were
moving, his hand had caught her smack at the side of the
face and she was sent up against the door.

‘* Father! ’’ cried Gudrun in a high voice, ‘* it is im-
possible ! ”’

FLITTING | 387

He stood unmoving. Ursula recovered, her hand was on
the door handle. She slowly drew herself up. He seemed
doubtful now.

“© It’s true,”’ she declared, with brilliant tears in her eyes,
her head lifted up in defiance. ** What has your love
meant, what did it ever mean?—bullying, and denial—it
did— ”’

He was advancing again with strange, tense movements,
and clenched fist, and the face of a murderer. But swift
as lightning she had flashed out of the door, and they heard
her running upstairs.

He stood for a moment looking at the door. Then, like
a defeated animal, he turned and went back to his seat by
the fire. | !

Gudrun was very white. Out of the intense silence, the
mother’s voice was heard saying, cold and angry :

** Well, you shouldn’t take so much notice of her.”’

Again the silence fell, each followed a separate set of
emotions and thoughts.

Suddenly the door opened again : Ursula, dressed in hat
and furs, with a small valise in her hand :

** Good-bye ! ”’ she said, in her maddening, bright, almost
mocking tone. ‘‘ I’m going.”’

And in the next instant the door was closed, they heard
the outer door, then her quick steps down the garden path,
then the gate banged, and her light footfall was gone.
There was a silence like death in the house.

Ursula went straight to the station, hastening heedlessly
on winged feet. There was no train, she must walk on to
the junction. As she went through the darkness, she began
to cry, and she wept bitterly, with a dumb, heart-broken,
child’s anguish, all the way on the road, and in the train.
Time passed unheeded and unknown, she did not know
where she was, nor what was taking place. Only she wept
from fathomless depths of hopeless, hopeless grief, the ter-
rible grief of a child, that knows no extenuation.

Yet her voice had the same defensive brightness as she
spoke to Birkin’s landlady at the door.

** Good evening! Is Mr Birkinin? CanI see him?”

** Yes, he’s in. He’s in his study.’’

_ Ursula slipped past the woman. His door opened. He
had heard her voice.

** Hello ! *? he exclaimed in surprise, seeing her standing

ipsa hts

388 - WOMEN IN LOVE.

there with the valise in her hand, and marks of tears on her —

face. She was one who wept without showing many traces, —
like a child.

** Do I look a sight ?”? she said, shrinking.

** No—why? Come in,’’ he took the bag from her hand
and they went into the study.

There—immediately, her lips began to tremble like those
of a child that remembers again, and the tears came rush-
ing up.

_ ** What’s the matter?’’ he asked, taking her in his arms.
She sobbed violently on his shoulder, whilst he held her still,
waiting.

** What’s the matter?’’ he said again, when she was
quieter. But she only pressed her face further into his
shoulder, in pain, like a child that cannot tell.

** What is it, then ?”’ he asked.

Suddenly she broke away, wiped her eyes, regained her
composure, and went and sat in a chair.

‘* Father hit me,’’ she announced, sitting bunched up,
rather like a ruffled bird, her. eyes very bright.

** What for?”’ he said.

She looked away, and would not answer. There was a
pitiful redness about her sensitive nostrils, and her quivering
lips.

** Why ?’’ he repeated, in his strange, soft, _ penetrating
voice.

She looked round at him, rather defiantly.

** Because I said I was going to be married to-morrow,
and he bullied me.”’

** Why did he bully you?”’

Her mouth dropped again, she remembered the scene once
more, the tears came up.

* Because I said he didn’t care—and he doesn’t, it’s only
his domineeringness that’s hurt— ”’ she said, her mouth
pulled awry by her weeping, all the time she spoke, so that
he almost smiled, it seemed so childish. Yet it was not
childish, it was a mortal conflict, a deep wound.

** It isn’t quite true,’? he said. ‘* And even so, you
shouldn’t say it.”’

‘* It is true—it is true,’ she wept, ‘* and I won’t be bul-
lied by his pretending it’s love—when it isn’t—he doesn’t
care, how can he—no, he can’t— ”*

He sat in silence. She moved him beyond himablf.

FLITTING 389

‘* Then you shouldn’t rouse him, if he can’t,’’ replied Bir-
kin quietly.

«© And I have loved him, I have,’’ she wept. ‘‘ I’ve loved
him always, and he’s always done this to me, he has— ”?

“* It’s been a love of opposition, then,’’ he said. ‘* Never
mind—it wiil be all right. It’s nothing desperate.”’

“© Yes,’’ she wept, “‘ it is, it is.’

6eé Why? 39 ;

‘* I shall never see him again

** Not immediately. Don’t cry, you had to break with
him, it had to be—don’t cry.”’

He went over to her and kissed her fine, fragile hair,
touching her wet cheeks gently.

** Don’t cry,’ he repeated, ‘* don’t cry any more.”

He held her head close against him, very close and quiet.

At last she was still. Then she looked up, her eyes wide

and frightened.

Don’t you want me ?”’ she asked.

* Want your” His darkened, steady eyes puzzled her
and did not give her play.

** Do you wish I hadn’t come ?’’ she asked, anxious now
again for fear she might be out of place.

“* No,’’ he said. ‘* I wish there hadn’t been the violence
—so much ugliness—but perhaps it was inevitable.”’

She watched him in silence. He seemed deadened.

** But where shall I stay ?’’ she asked, feeling humiliated.

He thought for a moment.

** Here, with me,’’ he said. ‘* We’re married as much
to-day as we shall be to-morrow.”’

6¢é But— 39

** T’ll tell Mrs Varley,’’ he said. ‘‘ Never mind now.”’’

He sat looking at her. She could feel his darkened steady
eyes looking at her all the time. It made her a little bit
frightened. She pushed her hair off her forehead ner-
vously.

** Do I look ugly ?”’ she said.

And she blew her nose again.

A small smile came round his eyes.

‘* No,”’ he said, ‘* fortunately.’’

And he went across to her, and gathered her like a be-
longing in his arms. She was so tenderly beautiful, he
could not bear to see her, he could only bear to hide her
against himself. Now; washed all clean by her tears, she

399

t 1 Pe ae eT catiet ie gt PRUNE CaM IS) RS
. * vi a) fe ih Wht ae Pa

390 WOMEN IN LOVE

was new and frail like a flower just unfolded, a flower so
new, so tender, so made perfect by inner light, that he could
not bear to look at her, he must hide her against himself,
cover his eyes against her. She had the perfect candour of
creation, something translucent and simple, like a radiant,
shining flower that moment unfolded in primal blessedness.
She was so new, so wonder-clear, so undimmed. And he
was so old, so steeped in heavy memories. Her soul was
new, undefined and glimmering with the unseen. And his
soul was dark and gloomy, it had only one grain of living
hope, like a grain of mustard seed. But this one living
grain in him matched the perfect youth in her.

**T love you,’’ he whispered as he kissed her, and
trembled with pure hope, like a man who is born again to
a wonderful, lively hope far exceeding the bounds of death.

She could not know how much it meant to him, how much
he meant by the few words. Almost childish, she wanted
proof, and statement, even over-statement, for everything
seemed still uncertain, unfixed to her.

But the passion of gratitude with which he received her
into his soul, the extreme, unthinkable gladness of knowing
himself living and fit to unite with her, he, who was so
nearly dead, who was so near to being gone with the rest of
his race down the slope of mechanical death, could never be
understood by her. He worshipped her as age worships
youth, he gloried in her, because, in his one grain of faith,
he was young as she, he was her proper mate. This mar-
riage with her was his resurrection and his life.

All this she could not know. She wanted to be made
much of, to be adored. There were infinite distances of
silence between them. How could he tell her of the imma-
nence of her beauty, that was not form, or weight, or colour,
but something like a. strange, golden light! How could he
know himself what her beauty lay in, for him. He said
** Your nose is beautiful, your chin is adorable.’? But it
sounded like lies, and she was disappointed, hurt. Even
when he said, whispering with truth, ‘‘ I love you, I love
you,’’ it was not the real truth. It was something beyond
love, such a gladness of having surpassed oneself, of having
transcended the old existence. How could he say ‘I’
when he was something new and unknown, not himself at
all? This I, this old formula of the age, was a dead letter.

In the new, superfine bliss, a peace superseding know-

FLITTING 391

ledge, there was no I and you, there was only the third,
- unrealised wonder, the wonder of existing not as oneself,
but in a consummation of my being and of her being in a
new one, a new, paradisal unit regained from the duality.
Nor can I say “‘ I love you,”’ when I have ceased to be, and
you have ceased to be: we are both caught up and trans-
cended into a new oneness where everything is silent, be-
cause there is nothing to answer, all is perfect and at one.
Speech travels between the separate parts. But in the per-
fect One there is perfect silence of bliss.

They were married by law on the next day, and she did
as he bade her, she wrote to her father and mother. Her
mother replied, not her father.

She did not go back to school. She stayed with Birkin
in his rooms, or at the Mill, moving with him as he moved.
But she did not see anybody, save Gudrun and Gerald. She
was all strange and wondering as yet, but relieved as by
dawn.

Gerald sat talking to her one afternoon in_ the
warm study down at the Mill. Rupert had not yet
come home. :

** You are happy ?”’ Gerald asked her, with a smile.

** Very happy ! ”’ she cried, shrinking a little in her bright-
ness.

‘* ‘Yes, one can see it.”’

** Can one ?’’ cried Ursula in surprise.

He looked up at her with a communicative smile.

** Oh yes, plainly.”’

She was pleased. She meditated a moment.

** And can you see that Rupert is happy as well ?’’

He lowered his eyelids, and looked aside.

** Oh yes,”’ he said.

** Really ! ”

** Oh yes.”’

He was very quiet, as if it were something not to be
talked about by him. He seemed sad.

She was very sensitive to suggestion. She asked the
question he wanted her to ask.

** Why don’t you be happy as well?’’ she said. ‘* You
could be just the same.’’

He paused a moment.

*¢ With Gudrun ?”’ he asked.

** Yes! ’’ she cried, her eyes glowing. But there was a

302 WOMEN IN LOVE.

strange tension, an emphasis, as if they were asserting their —
wishes, against the truth.

** You think Gudrun would have me, ni we should be
happy ?”’ he said.

** Yes, I’m sure! *? she cried.

Her eyes were round with delight. Yet underneath she
was constrained, she knew her own insistence.

** Oh, I’m so glad,”’ she added.

He smiled.

** What makes you glad ?’’ he said. |

** For her sake,’’ she replied. ‘‘ I’m sure you’d—you’re
the right man for her.”

** ‘You are?’? he said. ‘* And do you think she would
agree with you ?’’

‘Oh yes! ’? she exclaimed hastily. Then, upon recon-
sideration, very uneasy : ‘‘ Though Gudrun isn’t so very
simple, is she? One doesn’t-know her in five minutes, does
ye? She’s not like me in that.’? She laughed at him with
her strange, open, dazzled face.

** You think she’s not much like you ?”’ Gerald asked.

She knitted her brows.

** Oh, in many ways she is. But I never iene what she
will do when anything new comes.”’
—** You don’t?’ said Gerald. He was silent for some
moments. Then he moved tentatively. ‘‘ I was going to
ask her, in any case, to go away with me at Christmas,”’ he
said, in a very small, cautious voice.

‘Go away with you? For a time, you mean ?”’

** As long as she likes,”’ he said, with a deprecating move-
ment.

They were both silent for some minutes.

** Of course,’’ said Ursula at last, ‘‘ she might just be
willing to rush into marriage. You can see.’

** Yes,’’ smiled Gerald. ‘‘I can see. But in case she
won’t—do you think she would go abroad with me for a few
days—or for a fortnight ?’’

** Oh yes,’’ said Ursula. ‘* I’d ask her.”’

** Do you think we might all go together ?’’

** All of us??? Again Ursula’s face lighted up. ‘It
would be rather fun, don’t you think ?”’ :

** Great fun,’’ he said.

** And then you could see,’’ said Ursula.

** What ?”’

FLITTING 3938

** How things went. I think it is best to take the honey-
moon before the wedding—don’t you ?”’

She was pleased with this mot. He laughed.

‘In certain cases,’? he said. ‘*I’d rather it were so in
my own case.”’

** Would you!.’”’ exclaimed Ursula. Then doubtingly,
** Yes, perhaps you’re right. One should please oneself.”

Birkin came in a little later, and Ursula told him what
had been said.

** Gudrun ! ’? exclaimed Birkin. ‘* She’s a born mistress,
just as Gerald is a born lover—amant en titre. If as some-
body says all women are either wives or mistresses, then
Gudrun is a mistress.”’

** And all men either lovers or husbands,’’ cried Ursula.
** But why not both ?’’

** The one excludes the other,”’ he laughed.

** Then I want a lover,’’ cried Ursula.

** No you don’t,”’ he said.

** But I do,’’ she wailed.

He kissed her, and laughed. d

It was two days after this that Ursula was to go to fetch
her things from the house in Beldover. The removal had
taken place, the family had gone. Gudrun had rooms in
Willey Green. | 3

Ursula had not seen her parents since her marriage. She
wept over the rupture, yet what was the good of making it
up! Good or not good, she could not go to them. So her
things had been left behind and she and Gudrun were to
walk over for them, in the afternoon.

It was a wintry afternoon, with red in the sky, when they
arrived at the house. The windows were dark and blank,
already the place was frightening. A stark, void entrance-
hall struck a chill to the hearts of the girls.

_ **T don’t believe I dare have come in alone,’’ said Ursula.
** It frightens me.”’

** Ursula! ’? cried Gudrun. ‘“Isn’t it amazing! Can
you believe you lived in this place and never felt it? How
I lived here a day without dying of terror, I cannot con-
ceive | ’’

They looked in the big dining-room. It was a good-sized
- room, but now a cell would have been lovelier. The large
bay windows were naked, the floor was stripped, and a
border of dark polish went round the tract of pale boarding.

v

394 WOMEN IN LOVE

In the faded wall-paper were dark patches where furniture ©
had stood, where pictures had hung. The sense of walls,
dry, thin, flimsy-seeming walls, and a flimsy flooring, pale
with its artificial black edges, was neutralising to the mind.
Everything was null to the senses, there was enclosure with-
out substance, for the walls were dry and papery. Where
were they standing, on earth, or suspended in some card-
board box? In the hearth was burnt paper, and scraps of
half-burnt paper.
** Imagine that we passed our days here! !*? said Ursula.

**T know,”’ cried Gudrun. ‘* It is too appalling. What
must we be like, if we are the contents of this! {i7?

** Vile! *’ said Ursula. ‘* It really is.’

And she recognised half-burnt covers of ‘* Vogue ’’—half-
burnt representations of women in gowns—lying under the
grate.

They went to the drawing-room. Another piece of shut-
in air; without weight or substance, only a sense of intoler-
able papery imprisonment in nothingness. The kitchen did
look more substantial, because of the red-tiled floor and the
stove, but it was cold and horrid.

The two girls tramped hollowly up the bare stairs. Every
sound re-echoed under their hearts. They tramped down
the bare corridor. Against the wall of Ursula’s bedroom
were her things—a trunk, a work-basket, some books, loose
coats, a hat-box, standing desolate in the universal empti-
ness of the dusk.

** A cheerful sight, aren’t they??? said Ursula, leeks
down at her forsaken possessions.

** Very cheerful,’’ said Gudrun.

The two girls set to, carrying everything down to the treed
door. Again and again they made the hollow, re-echoing
transit. The whole place seemed to resound about them
with a noise of hollow, empty futility. In the distance the
empty, invisible rooms sent forth a vibration almost of
obscenity. They almost fled with the last articles, into the
out-of-door. .

But it was cold. They were waiting for Birkin, who was
coming with the car. They went indoors again, and up-
stairs to their parents’ front bedroom, whose windows looked
down on the road, and across the country at the black-
barred sunset, black and red barred, without light.

They sat down in the window-seat, to wait. Both girls

FLITTING 395

were looking over the room. It was void, with a meaning-
lessness that was almost dreadful.

** Really,” said Ursula, *‘ this room couldn’t be sacred,
sie ie???

Gudrun looked over it with slow eyes.

** Impossible,’’ she replied.

** When I think of their lives—father’s and mother’s, their
love, and their marriage, and all of us children, avid our
bringing-up—would you have such a life, Prune ?’’

**T wouldn’t, Ursula.”’

*‘It all seems so nothing—their two lives—there’s no
meaning in it. Really, if they had not met, and not
married, and not lived together—it wouldn’t have mattered,
would it ?”’

** Of course—you can’t tell,’’ said Gudrun.

**No. But if I thought my life was going to be like it—
Prune,”’ she caught Gudrun’s arm, ‘‘ I should run.”’

Gudrun was silent for a few moments.

** As a matter of fact, one cannot contemplate the ordin-
ary life—one cannot contemplate it,’? replied Gudrun.
** With you, Ursula, it is quite different. You will be out
of it all, with Birkin. He’s a special case. But with the
ordinary man, who has his life fixed in one place, marriage
is just impossible. There may be, and there are, thousands
of women who want it, and could conceive of nothing else.
But the very thought of it sends me mad. One must be
free, above all, one must be free. One may forfeit every-
thing else, but one must be free—one must not become
7, Pinchbeck Street—or Somerset Drive—or Shortlands. No
man will be sufficient to make that good—no man! To
marry, one must have a free lance, or nothing, a comrade-
in-arms, a Glicksritter. A man with a position in the social
world—vwell, it is just impossible, impossible ! ”’

** What a lovely word—a Gliicksritter!’’ said Ursula.
** So much nicer than a soldier of fortune.”’’ |

** Yes, isn’t it??? said Gudrun. ‘‘ I’d tilt the world with
a Gliicksritter. But a home, an establishment ! Ursula,
what would it mean ?—think ! ”’

**T know,’’ said Ursula. ‘* We’ve had one home—that’s
enough for me.”?

** Quite enough,”’ said Gudrun.

** The little grey home in the west,’’ quoted Ursula ironic-
ally.

396 WOMEN IN LOVE

** Doesn’t it sound grey, too,’’ said Gudrun grimly.

They were interrupted by the sound of the car. There

was Birkin. Ursula was surprised that she felt so lit up,
that she became suddenly so free from the problems of grey
homes in the west.

They heard his heels click on the hall pavement below.

‘* Hello! ’? he called, his voice echoing alive through the
house. Ursula smiled to herself. He was frightened of the
place too. .

‘* Hello! Here we are,’’ she called downstairs. And
they heard him quickly running up.

** This is a ghostly situation,’’ he said.

** These houses don’t have ghosts—they’ve never had any
personality, and only a place with personality can have a
ghost,’’ said Gudrun.

**T suppose so. Are you both weeping over the past ?*’

** We are,”’ said Gudrun, grimly.

Ursula laughed. .

‘* Not weeping that it’s gone, but weeping that it ever
was,’ she said.

** Oh,”’ he replied, relieved.

He sat down for a moment. There was something in his
presence, Ursula thought, lambent and alive. It made
even the impertinent structure of this null house disappear.

** Gudrun says she could not bear to be married and put
into a house,’’ said Ursula meaningful—they knew this re-
ferred to Gerald.

He was silent for some moments.

** Well,’’ he said, *‘ if you know beforehand you couldn’t
stand it, you’re safe.’’

** Quite ! ?? said Gudrun.

‘© Why does every woman think her aim in life is to have
a hubby and a little grey home in the west? Why is this
the goal of life? Why should it be?’ said Ursula.

** T] faut avoir le respect de ses bétises,’’ said Birkin.

** But you needn’t have the respect for the bétise before
you’ve committed it,’’ laughed Ursula.

** Ah then, des bétises du papa ?”’

** Et de la maman,”’ added Gudrun satirically.

** Et des voisins,’’ said Ursula.

They all laughed, and rose. It was getting dark. They

carried the things to the car. Gudrun locked the door of —
the empty house. Birkin had lighted the lamps of the auto-_

FLITTING nn eg

mobile. It all seemed very happy, as if they were setting
out.

** Do you mind stopping at Coulsons. I have to leave the
key there,’’ said Gudrun.

** Right,” said Birkin, and they moved off.

They stopped in the main street. The shops were just
lighted, the last miners were passing home along the cause-
ways, half-visible shadows in their grey pit-dirt, moving
through the blue air. But their feet rang harshly in mani-
fold sound, along the pavement.

How pleased Gudrun was to come out of the shop, and
enter the car, and be borne swiftly away into the down-hill
of palpable dusk, with Ursula and Birkin! What an adven-
ture life seemed at this moment! How deeply, how sud-
denly she envied Ursula! Life for her was so quick, and an
open door—so reckless as if not only this world, but the
world that was gone and the world to come were nothing
to her. Ah, if she could be just like that, it would be
perfect.

For always, except in her moments of excitement, she
felt a want within herself. She was unsure. She had felt
that now, at last, in Gerald’s strong and violent love, she
was living fully and finally. But when she compared her-
self with Ursula, already her soul was jealous, unsatisfied.
She was not satisfied—she was never to be satisfied.

What was she short of now? It was marriage—it was the
wonderful stability of marriage. She did want it, let her
say what she might. She had been lying. The old idea of
marriage was right even now—marriage and the home. Yet
her mouth gave a little grimace at the words. She thought
of Gerald and Shortlands—-marriage and the home! Ah
well, let it rest! He meant a great deal to her—but— !
Perhaps it was not in her to marry. She was one of life’s
outcasts, one of the drifting lives that have no root. No,
no—it could not be so. She suddenly conjured up a rosy
room, with herself in a beautiful gown, and a handsome man
in evening dress who held her in his arms in the firelight, and
kissed her. This picture she entitled ‘‘ Home.’’ It would
have done for the Royal Academy.

** Come with us to tea—do,”’ said Ursula, as they ran
nearer to the cottage of Willey Green.

** Thanks awfully—but I must go in—”? said Gudrun.
She wanted very much to go on with Ursula and Birkin.

: ae ~ f ee 3 «4 ih .
- ‘ “ q ual 2 an AA es Wa + fe
a x) - yy haa e .

398 WOMEN IN LOVE

That seemed like life indeed to her. Yet a certain perver-
sity would not let her.

** Do come—yes, it would be so nice,’’ pleaded Ursula.

**1’m awfully sorry—I should love to—but I can’t—
really— ”? .

She descended from the car in trembling haste.

** Can’t you really ! ’? came Ursula’s regretful voice.

** No, really I can’t,’’ responded Gudrun’s pathetic, chag-
rined words out of the dusk.

** All right, are you?”’ called Birkin.

** Quite! *? said Gudrun. ‘* Good-night ! ”

** Good-night,”’ they called.

** Come whenever you like, we shall be glad,’’ called
Birkin.

** Thank you very much,”’ called Gudrun, in the strange,
twanging voice of lonely chagrin that was very puzzling to
him. She turned away to her cottage gate, and they drove
on. But immediately she stood to watch them, as the car
ran vague into the distance. And as she went up the path
to her strange house, her heart was full of incomprehensible
bitterness.

In her parlour was a long-case clock, and inserted into its
dial was a ruddy, round, slant-eyed, joyous-painted face,
that wagged over with the most ridiculous ogle when the
clock ticked, and back again with the same absurd glad-eye
at the next tick. All the time the absurd smooth, brown-
ruddy face gave her an obtrusive ‘‘ glad-eye.’’ She stood
for minutes, watching it, till a sort of maddened disgust
overcame her, and she laughed at herself hollowly. And
still it rocked, and gave her the glad-eye from one side, then
from the other, from one side, then from the other. Ah,
how unhappy she was! In the midst of her most active
happiness, ah; how unhappy she was! She glanced at the
table. Gooseberry jam, and the same home-made cake with
too much soda in it! Still, gooseberry jam was good, and
one so rarely got it.

All the evening she wanted to go to the Mill. But she
coldly refused to allow herself. She went the next afternoon
instead. She was happy to find Ursula alone. It was a
lovely, intimate secluded atmosphere. They talked end-
lessly and delightedly. ‘* Aren’t you fearfully happy
here ?”? said Gudrun to her sister glancing at her own bright
eyes in the mirror. She always envied, almost with resent-

3 Tap yp Ramee Pea o a PM Ne “ a d Le pe ine be
he ae _ y

FLITTING 399

ment, the strange positive fulness that subsisted in the
atmosphere around Ursula and Birkin.

_ How really beautifully this room is done,’ she said
aloud. ‘* This hard plaited matting—what a lovely colour
it is, the colour of cool light ! ”’

And it seemed to her perfect.

** Ursula,’’ she said at length, in‘a voice of question and
detachment, ‘‘ did you know that Gerald Crich had sug-

gested our going away all together at Christmas ?”’
_ ** Yes, he’s spoken to Rupert.”’

A deep flush dyed Gudrun’s cheek. She was silent a
moment, as if taken aback, and not knowing what to say. _~

** But don’t you think,” she said at last, ** it is amazingly
cool! ”?

Ursula laughed.

-**T like him for it,’’ she said.

Gudrun was silent. It was evident that, whilst she was
almost mortified by Gerald’s taking the liberty of making
such a suggestion to Birkin, yet the idea itself attracted her
strongly.

** There’s a rather lovely simplicity about Gerald, I
think,’’? said Ursula, ‘* so defiant, somehow! Oh, I think
he’s very loveable.”’

Gudrun did not reply for some moments. She had still
to get over the feeling of insult at the liberty taken with
her freedom.

** What did Rupert say—do you know ?”’ she asked.

** He said it would be most awfully jolly,’’ said Ursula. |

Again Gudrun looked down, and was silent.

** Don’t you think it would?’’ said Ursula, tentatively.
She was never quite sure how many defences Gudrun was
having round herself.

Gudrun raised her face with difficulty and held it averted.

**T think it might be awfully jolly, as you say,’’ she re-
plied. ** But don’t you think it was an unpardonable
liberty to take—to talk of such things to Rupert—who after
all—you see what I mean, Ursula—they might have been
two men arranging an outing with some little type they’d
picked up. Oh, I think it’s unforgivable, quite!’’ She
used the French word ‘‘ type.’’

Her eyes flashed, her soft face was flushed and sullen.
Ursula looked on, rather frightened, frightened most of all
because she thought Gudrun seemed rather common, really

ni : oA a a ar Fh sey df oA freee tes ae i is ae hy a
, rt vey aay te a Md Ade at el a a
2 F era: vy)

be ye Me ay
- 7 Hennes a sem) re ’
bas Rae Te ae EM Se
¢ TAD Fah’ on SO

ae, ne

400 - WOMEN IN LOVE _

like a little type. But she had not the courage quite to
think this—not right out. ee

Oh no,” she cried, stammering. ‘* Oh no—not at all
like that—oh no! No, I think it’s rather beautiful,
the friendship between Rupert and Gerald. They
just are simple—they say anything to each other, like
brothers.”’ ,

Gudrun flushed deeper. She could not bear it that Gerald
gave her away—even to Birkin.

** But do you think even brothers have any right to ex-
change confidences of that sort?’’ she asked, with deep
anger.

**Oh yes,’* said Ursula. ‘‘ There’s never anything said
that isn’t perfectly straightforward. No, the thing that’s
amazed me most in Gerald—how perfectly simple and
direct he can be! And you know, it takes rather
a big man. Most of them must be indirect, they are such
cowards.””

But Gudrun was still silent with anger. She wanted the
absolute secrecy kept, with regard to her movements.

** Won’t you go ?”’ said Ursula. ‘* Do, we might all be so
happy ! There is something I love about Gerald—he’s
much more loveable than I thought him. He’s free, Gud-
run, he really is.”’

Gudrun’s mouth was still closed, sullen and ugly. She
opened it at length.

** Do you know where he proposes to go?’ she asked.

** Yes—to the Tyrol, where he used to go when he was in
Germany—a lovely place where students go, small and
rough and lovely, for winter sport ! ”’

Through Gudrun’s mind went the angry thought—* they
know everything.’

** Yes,’’ she said aloud, ‘* about forty kilometres from
Innsbruck, isn’t it ?”’ ;

**T don’t know exactly where—but it would be lovely,
don’t you think, high in the perfect snow— ?”’

** Very lovely ! *? said Gudrun, sarcastically.

Ursula was put out. |

** Of course,’’ she said, *‘ I think Gerald spoke to Rupert
so that it shouldn’t seem like an outing with a type— ”’

‘© T know, of course,’’ said Gudrun, ‘‘ that he quite com-
monly does take up with that sort.”

** Does he!’ said Ursula. ‘‘ Why how do you know?”’

CHAP: XXVIII. GUDRUN IN THE POMPADOUR

CHRISTMAS drew near, all four prepared for flight. Birkin
and Ursula were busy packing their few personal things,
making them ready to be sent off, to whatever country and
whatever place they might choose at last. Gudrun was
very much excited. She loved to be on the wing.

She and Gerald, being ready first, set off via London and
Paris to Innsbruck, where they would meet Ursula and
Birkin. In London they stayed one night. They
went to the music-hall, and afterwards to the Pompadour ~
Café.

Gudrun hated the Café, yet she always went back to it,
as did most of the artists of her acquaintance. Shé loathed
its atmosphere of petty vice and petty jealousy and petty
art. Yet she always called in again, when she was in town.
It was as if she had to return to this small, slow, central
whirlpool of disintegration and dissolution : just give it a
look.

She sat with Gerald drinking some sweetish liqueur, and
staring with black, sullen looks at the various groups of
people at the tables. She would greet nobody, but young
men nodded to her frequently, with a kind of sneering
familiarity. She cut them all. And it gave her pleasure to
sit there, cheeks flushed, eyes black and sullen, seeing them
all objectively, as put away from her, like creatures in some
menagerie of apish degraded souls. God, what a foul crew
they were! Her blood beat black and thick in her veins
with rage and loathing. Yet she must sit and watch,
watch. One or two people came to speak to her. From
every side of the Café, eyes turned half furtively, half jeer-
ingly at her, men looking over their shoulders, women
under their hats.

The old crowd was there, Carlyon in his corner with his
pupils and his girl, Halliday and Libidnikov and the Pussum
—they were all there. Gudrun watched Gerald. She
watched his eyes linger a moment on Halliday, on Halli-
day’s party. These last were on the look-out—they nodded
to him, he nodded again. They giggled and whispered
among themselves. Gerald watched them with the steady

402 |

GUDRUN IN THE POMPADOUR 403

twinkle in his eyes. They were urging the Pussum to some-
thing.
_ She at last rose. She was wearing a curious dress of dark
silk splashed and spattered with different colours, a curious
motley effect. She was thinner, her eyes were perhaps
hotter, more disintegrated. Otherwise she was just the
same. Gerald watched her with the same steady twinkle in
his eyes as she came across. She held out her thin brown
hand to him.

** How are you ?”’ she said.

He shook hands with her, but remained suabet. and let
her stand near him, against the table. She nodded blackly
to Gudrun, whom she did not know to speak to, but well
enough by sight and reputation.

**T am very well,’’ said Gerald. ‘‘ And you?’’

** Oh I’m all wight. What about Wupert ?”

** Rupert? He’s very well, too.”’

** Yes, I don’t mean that. What about him being mar-
ried P”? :

** Oh—yes, he is married.”’

The Pussum’s eyes had a hot flash.

** Oh, he’s weally bwought it off then, has he? When
was he married ?”’

** A week or two ago.’’

** Weally ! He’s never written.”

**No. Don’t you think it’s too bad ?’’

This last was in a tone of challenge. The Pussum let it be
known by her tone, that she was aware of Gudrun’s listening.

** I suppose he didn’t feel like it,’? replied Gerald.

** But why didn’t he ?’’ pursued the Pussum.

This was received in silence. There was an ugly, mock-
ing persistence in the small, beautiful figure of the short-
haired girl, as she stood. near Gerald.

** Are you staying in town long ?”’ she asked.

** To-night only.”’

** Oh, only to-night. Are you coming over to speak to
Julius ?”?

** Not to-night.”’

** Oh very well. I’ll tell him then.’’ Then came her
touch of diablerie. ‘* You’re looking awf’lly fit.’’

** Yes—I feel it.’? Gerald was quite calm and easy, a
spark of satiric amusement in his eye.

Ae Tiaras) Ns Make oo ct

404 WOMEN IN LOVE

_ * Are you having a good time ?”’

This was a direct blow for Gudrun, spoken in a level, tone-
less voice of callous ease.

** Yes,”’ he replied, quite colourlessly.

** 1’m awf’lly sorry you aren’t coming round to the flat.
You aren’t very faithful to your fwiends.’’

** Not very,” he said.

She nodded them both ‘ Good-night,’? and went back
slowly to her own set. Gudrun watched her curious walk,
stiff and jerking at the loins. They heard her level, toneless
voice distinctly.

**He won’t come over;—he is otherwise engaged,”’ it
said. There was more laughter und lowered voices and
mockery at the table.

** Is she a friend of yours ?”? said Gudrun, looking calmly
at Gerald.

** I’ve stayed at Halliday’s flat with Birkin,’? he said,
meeting her slow, calm eyes. And she knew that the Pus-
sum was one of his mistresses—and he knew she knew.

She looked round, and called for the waiter. She wanted
an iced cocktail, of all things. This amused Gerald—he
wondered what was up. .

The Halliday party was tipsy, and malicious. They were
talking out loudly about Birkin, ridiculing him on every
point, particularly on his marriage.

**Oh, don’t make me think of Birkin,’’ Halliday was
squealing. ‘* He makes me perfectly sick. He is as bad as
Jesus. ‘ Lord, what must Ido to be saved!’* —

He giggled to himself tipsily.

**Do you remember,”’’ came the quick voice of the Rus-
sian, ‘* the letters he used to send. ‘ Desire is holy—’ ”’

** Oh yes!’ cried Halliday. ‘* Oh, how perfectly splen-
did. Why, I’ve got one in my pocket. I’m sure I
have.”’

He took out various papers from his pocket book.

** I’m sure I’ve—hic! Oh dear!—got one.”’

Gerald and Gudrun were watching absorbedly.

** Oh yes, how perfectly—hic!—splendid! Don’t make
me laugh, Pussum, it gives me the hiccup. Hic!—’ They
all giggled.

** What did he say in that one ?”? the Pussum asked, lean-
ing forward, her dark, soft hair falling and swinging against
her face. There was something curiously indecent, obscene,

GUDRUN IN THE POMPADOUR 405

about her small, longish, dark skull, particularly when the
ears showed. ,

** Wait—-oh do wait! No-o, I won’t give it to you, I'll
read it aloud. I?ll read you the choice bits,—hic! Oh
dear! Do you think if I drink water it would take off this
hiccup? Hic! Oh, I feel perfectly helpless.”

_*€Isn’t that the letter about uniting the dark and the
light—and the Flux of Corruption ?’’ asked Maxim, in his
precise, quick voice.

** 1 believe so,’’ said the Pussum.

“ Ohisit? I'd forgotten—hic !—it was that one,’’ Halli-
day said, opening the letter. ‘‘ Hic! Oh yes. How per-
fectly splendid! This is one of the best. ‘‘* There is a
phase in every race—’”’ he read in the sing-song, slow,
distinct voice of a clergyman reading the Scriptures,
*¢* when the desire for destruction overcomes every other
desire. In the individual, this desire is ultimately a desire
for destruction in the self ’—hic !— *’ he paused and looked
up.
ve I hope he’s going ahead with the destruction of him-
self,’’ said the quick voice of the Russian. Halliday giggled,
and lolled his head back, vaguely.

** There’s not much to destroy in him,”’ said the Pussum.
** He’s so thin already, there’s only a fag-end to start on.’’

** Oh, isn’t it beautiful! I love reading it! I believe it
has cured my hiccup! *? squealed Halliday. ‘* Do let me go
on. ‘It is a desire for the reduction-process in oneself, a
reducing back to the origin, a return along the Flux of Cor-
ruption, to the original rudimentary conditions of being—! ’
Oh, but I do think it is wonderful. It almost supersedes
the Bible— ”’ |

** Yes—Flux of Corruption,’’ said the Russian, ‘I re-
member that phrase.”’

** Oh, he was always talking about Corruption,’’ said the
Pussum. ‘* He must be corrupt himself, to have it so much
on his mind.”’

** Exactly ! ’? said the Russian.

**Do let me go on! Oh, this is a perfectly wonderful
piece! But do listen to this. ‘ And in the great retrogres-
sion, the reducing back of the created body of life, we get
knowledge, and beyond knowledge, the phosphorescent
ecstasy of acute sensation.” Oh, I do think these phrases
are too absurdly wonderful. Oh but don’t you think they

406 WOMEN IN LOVE

are—they’re nearly as good as Jesus. ‘ And if, Julius, you
want this ecstasy of reduction with the Pussum, you must
go on till it is fulfilled. But surely there is in you also,
somewhere, the living desire for positive creation, relation-
ships in ultimate faith, when all this process of active cor-
ruption, with all its flowers of mud, is transcended, and
more or less finished—’ I do wonder what the flowers of
mud are. Pussum, you are a flower of mud.’’

** Thank you—and what are you ?”’

** Oh, I’m another, surely, according to this letter! We’re
all flowers of mud—Fleurs—hic! du mal! It’s perfectly
wonderful, Birkin harrowing Hell—harrowing the Pompa-
dour—Hic! ”’

**Go on—go on,’”’ said Maxim. ‘*‘ What comes next?
It’s really very interesting.”’

** 7 think it’s awful cheek to write like that,’’ said the
Pussum.

** Yes—yes, so do I,”’ said the Russian. ‘‘ He is a me-
galomaniac, of course, it is a form of religious mania. He
thinks he is the Saviour of man—go on reading.’’

‘** Surely,’’ Halliday intoned, ‘*‘ surely goodness and
mercy hath followed me all the days of my life—’”’ he
broke off and giggled. Then he began again, intoning like
a clergyman. ‘‘ * Surely there will come an end in us to
this desire—for the constant going apart,—this passion for
putting asunder—everything—ourselves, reducing ourselves
part from part—reacting in intimacy only for destruction,—
using sex as a great reducing agent, reducing the two great
elements of male and female from their highly complex
unity—reducing the old ideas, going back to the savages for
our sensations,—always seeking to lose ourselves in some
ultimate black sensation, mindless and infinite—burning
only with destructive fires, raging on with the hope of be-
ing burnt out utterly— ’ ”’

**T want to go,’”’ said Gudrun to Gerald, as she signalled
the waiter. Her eyes were flashing, her cheeks were
flushed. The strange effect of Birkin’s letter read aloud
in a perfect clerical sing-song, clear and resonant, phrase by
phrase, made the blood mount into her head as if she were
mad.

She rose, whilst Gerald was paying the bill, and
walked over to Halliday’s table. They all glanced
up at her. |

39

b PMI ON Mt lp Aa RO SD Whe Dee GA yay Berth Ree RA em eat Ray SRE) it Bh Pest
Mae hoe tae ay erly ek

_ GUDRUN IN THE POMPADOUR 407°

** Excuse me,’’ she said. ‘‘ Is that a genuine letter you
are reading ?”’

** Oh yes,’’ said Halliday. ‘* Quite genuine.”’

** May I see ?”’

Smiling foolishly he handed it to her, as if hypnotised.

** Thank you,”’ she said.

And she turned and walked out of the Café with the letter,
all down the brilliant room, between the tables, in her
measured fashion. It was some moments before anybody
realised what was happening.

From Halliday’s table came half articulate cries, then
somebody booed, then all the far end of the place began
booing after Gudrun’s retreating form. She was fashion-
ably dressed in blackish-green and silver, her hat was bril-
liant green, like the sheen on an insect, but the brim was
soft dark green, a falling edge with fine silver, her coat was
dark green, lustrous, with a high collar of grey fur,
and great fur cuffs, the edge of her dress showed silver and
black velvet, her stockings and shoes were silver grey. She
moved with slow, fashionable indifference to the door. The
porter opened obsequiously for her, and, at her nod, hurried
to the edge of the pavement and whistled for a taxi. The
two lights of a vehicle almost immediately curved round
towards her, like two eyes.

Gerald had followed in wonder, amid all the booing, not
having caught her misdeed. He heard the Pussum’s voice
saying :

** Go and get it back from her. I never heard of such a
thing! Go and get it.back from her. Tell Gerald Crich—
there he goes—go and make him give it up.”’

Gudrun stood at the door of the taxi, which the man held
open for her.

**To the hotel?’? she asked, as Gerald came out, hur-
riedly.

‘* ‘Where you like,’’ he answered.

** Right! ’? she said. Then to the driver, ‘‘ Wagstaff’s—
Barton Street.’’

The driver bowed his head, and put down the flag.

Gudrun entered the taxi, with the deliberate cold move-
ment of a woman who is well-dressed and contemptuous in
her soul. Yet she was frozen with overwrought feelings.
Gerald followed her.

** You’ve forgotten the man,” she said coolly, with a

a Sag Mout

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pa!

408 - WOMEN IN LOVE

slight nod of her hat. Gerald gave the porter a shilling. —
_ The man saluted. They were in motion.

** What was all the row about?’’ asked Gerald, in won-
dering excitement.

**T walked away with Birkin’s letter,’’ she said, and he
saw the crushed paper in her hand.

His eyes glittered with satisfaction.

** Ah!” he said. ‘‘ Splendid! A set of jackasses! ”’

**T could have killed them!’ she cried in passion.
** Dogs !—they are dogs! Why is Rupert such a fool as to
write such letters to them? Why does he give himself away
to such canaille? It’s a thing that cannot be borne.’

Gerald wondered over her strange passion.

And she could not rest any longer in London. They
must go by the morning train from Charing Cross. As
they drew over the bridge, in the train, having glimpses of
the river between the great iron girders, she cried :

** I feel I could never see this foul town again—I couldn’t
bear to come back to it.”’

Terao on

CHAP : XXIX. CONTINENTAL

Ursvu.La went on in an unreal suspense, the last weeks before
going away. She was not herself,—she was not anything.
She was something that is going to be—soon—soon—very
soon. But as yet, she was only imminent.

She went to see her parents. It was a rather stiff, sad
meeting, more like a verification of separateness than
a reunion. But they were all vague and indefinite with
one another, stiffened in the fate that moved them
apart. |

She did not really come to until she was on the ship cross-
ing from Dover to Ostend. Dimly she had come downto
London with Birkin, London had been a vagueness, so had
the train-journey to Dover. It was all like a sleep.

And now, at last, as she stood in the stern of the ship, in
a pitch-dark, rather blowy night, feeling the motion of the
sea, and watching the small, rather desolate little lights
that twinkled on the shores of England, as on the shores of
nowhere, watched them sinking smaller and smaller on the
profound and living darkness, she felt her soul stirring to
awake from its anesthetic sleep.

** Let us go forward, shall we ?’’ said Birkin. He wanted
to be at the tip of their projection. So they left off looking
at the faint sparks that glimmered out of nowhere, in the
far distance, called England, and turned their faces to the
unfathomed night in front.

They went right to the bows of the softly plunging vessel. -
In the complete obscurity, Birkin found a comparatively
sheltered nook, where a great rope was coiled up. It was
quite near the very point of the ship, near the black, un-
‘pierced space ahead. Here they sat down, folded together,
folded round with the same rug, creeping in nearer and ever
nearer to one another, till it seemed they had crept right
into each other, and become one substance. It was very
cold, and the darkness was palpable.

One of the ship’s crew came along the deck, dark as the
darkness, not really visible. They then made out the faint-
est pallor of his face. He felt their presence, and stopped,
unsure—then bent forward. When his face was near them,

409

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Saas
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410 WOMEN IN LOVE

he saw the faint pallor of their faces. Then he withdrew
like a phantom. And they watched him without making ©
any sound. :

They seemed to fall away into the profound darkness.
There was no sky, no earth, only one unbroken darkness,
into which, with a soft, sleeping motion, they seemed to
fall like one closed seed of life falling through dark,
fathomless space. |

They had forgotten where they were, forgotten all that
was and all that had been, conscious only in their heart, and
there conscious only of this pure trajectory through the
surpassing darkness. The ship’s prow cleaved on, with a
faint noise of cleavage, into the complete night, without
knowing, without seeing, only surging on.

In Ursula the sense of the unrealised world ahead
triumphed over everything. In the midst of this profound
darkness, there seemed to glow on her heart the effulgence —
of a paradise unknown and unrealised. Her heart was full
of the most wonderful light, golden like honey of darkness,
sweet like the warmth of day, a light which was not shed on
the world, only on the unknown paradise towards which she
was going, a sweetness of habitation, a delight of living
quite unknewn, but hers infallibly. In her transport she
lifted her face suddenly to him, and he touched it with his
lips. So cold, so fresh, so sea-clear her face was, it was like
kissing a flower that grows near the surf.

But he did not know the ecstasy of bliss in fore-knowledge
that she knew. To him, the wonder of this transit was
overwhelming. He was falling through a gulf of infinite
darkness, like a meteorite plunging across the chasm be-
tween the worlds. The world was torn in two, and he was
plunging like an unlit star through the ineffable rift. What
was beyond was not yet for him. He was overcome by the
trajectory.

In a trance he lay enfoiding Ursula round about. His
face was against her fine, fragile hair, he breathed its fra-
grance with the sea and the profound night. And
his soul was at peace; yielded, as he fell into the unknown.
This was the first time that an utter and absolute
peace had entered his heart, now, in this final transit out
of life.

When there came some stir on the deck, they roused.
They stood up. How stiff and cramped they were, in the

CONTINENTAL : 411
night-time! And yet the paradisal glow on her heart, and
the unutterable peace of darkness in his, this was the all-in-
all. |

They stood up and looked ahead. Low lights were seen
down the darkness. This was the world again. It was not
the bliss of her heart, nor the peace of his. It was the
superficial unreal world of fact. Yet not quite the old
world. For the peace and the bliss in their hearts was en-
- during.

Strange, and desolate above all things, like disembarking
from the Styx into the desolated underworld, was _ this
landing at night. There was the raw, half-lighted, covered-
in vastness of the dark place, boarded and hollow under-
_ foot, with only desolation everywhere. Ursula had caught
sight of the big, pallid, mystic letters ‘* OSTEND,”’ stand-
ing in the darkness. Everybody was hurrying with a
blind, insect-like intentness through the dark grey air, por-
ters were calling in un-English English, then trotting with
heavy bags, their colourless blouses looking ghostly as they
disappeared ; Ursula stood at a long, low, zinc-covered bar-
rier, along with hundreds of other spectral people, and all
the way down the vast, raw darkness was this low stretch
of open bags and spectral people, whilst, on the other side
of the barrier, pallid officials in peaked caps and mous-
taches were turning the underclothing in the bags, then
scrawling a chalk-mark.

It was done. Birkin snapped the hand bags, off they
went, the porter coming behind. They were through a
great doorway, and in the open night again—ah, a railway
platform! Voices were still calling in inhuman agitation
through the dark-grey air, spectres were running along the
darkness between the train.

** Kéln—Berlin— ’? Ursula made out on the boards hung
on the high train on one side.

**‘ Here we are,’’ said Birkin. And on her side she saw:
** Elsass—Lothringen—Luxembourg, Metz—Basle.’’

** That was it, Basle! ”’

The porter came up. |

** A Bale—deuxiéme classe P—Voila !’? And he clambered
into the high train. They followed. The compartments
were already some of them taken. But many were
dim and empty. The luggage was stowed, the porter was
tipped.

412 WOMEN IN LOVE
** Nous avons encore—?* said Birkin, looking at his
watch and at the porter. 3
** Encore une demi-heure.’? With which, in his blue
blouse, he disappeared. He was ugly and insolent.

** Come,”’ said Birkin. ‘‘It is cold. Let us eat.”’

There was a coffee-wagon on the platform. They drank
hot, watery coffee, and ate the long rolls, split, with ham
between, which were such a wide bite that it almost dis-
located Ursula’s jaw; and they walked beside the high ~
trains. It was all so strange, so extremely desolate, like
the underworld, grey, grey, dirt grey, desolate, forlorn,
nowhere—grey, dreary nowhere.

At last they were moving through the night. In the
darkness Ursula made out the flat fields, the wet flat dreary
darkness of the Continent. They pulled up surprisingly
soon—Bruges! Then on through the level darkness, with
glimpses of sleeping farms and thin poplar trees and de-
serted high-roads. She sat dismayed, hand in hand with
Birkin. He pale, immobile like a revenant himself, looked
sometimes out of the window, sometimes closed his eyes.
Then his eyes opened again, dark as the darkness outside. »

A flash of a few lights on the darkness—Ghent station !
A few more spectres moving outside on the platform—then
the bell—then motion again through the level darkness.
Ursula saw a man with a lantern come out of a farm by
the railway, and cross to the dark farm-buildings. She
thought of the Marsh, the old, intimate farm-life at Cosse-.
thay. My God, how far was she projected from her child-
hood, how far was she still to go! In one life-time one
travelled through zons. The great chasm of memory from
her childhood in the intimate country surroundings of Cosse-
thay and the Marsh Farm—she remembered the servant
Tilly, who used to give her bread and butter sprinkled with
brown sugar, in the old living-room where the grandfather
clock had two pink roses in a basket painted above the
figures on the face—and now when she was travelling into
the unknown with Birkin, an utter stranger—was so great,
that it seemed she had no identity, that the child she had
been, playing in Cossethay churchyard, was a little creature
of history, not really herself.

They were at Brussels—half an hour for breakfast. They
got down. On the great station clock it said six o’clock.
They had coffee and rolls and honey in the vast desert re-

onean ney

CONTINENTAL 418

freshment room, so dreary, always so dreary, dirty, so
spacious, such desolation of space. But she washed her
face and hands in hot water, and combed her hair—that
was a blessing.

Soon they were in the train again and moving on. The
greyness of dawn began. There were several people in the
compartment, large florid Belgian business-men with long
brown beards, talking incessantly in an ugly French she was

- too tired to follow.
_ It seemed the train ran by degrees out of the darkness
into a faint light, then beat after beat into the day. Ah,
how weary it was! Faintly, the trees showed, like shadows.
Then a house, white, had a curious distinctness. How was
it? Then she saw a village—there were always houses
‘passing.

This was an 1 old world she was still journeying through,
winter-heavy and dreary. There was plough-land and pas-
ture, and copses of bare trees, copses of bushes, and home-
steads naked and work-bare. No new earth had come to
pass.

She locked at Birkin’s face. It was white and still and
eternal, too eternal. She linked her fingers imploringly in
his, under the cover of her rug. His fingers responded, his
eyes looked back at her. How dark, like a night, his eyes
were, like another world beyond! Oh, if he were the world
as well, if only the world were he! If only he could call a
world into being, that should be their own world !

The Belgians left, the train ran on, through Luxembourg,
through Alsace-Lorraine, through Metz. But she was
blind, she could see no more. Her soul did not look out.

They came at last to Basle, to the hotel. It was all a
drifting trance, from which she never came to. They went
out in the morning, before the train departed. She saw
the street, the river, she stood on the bridge. But it all
meant nothing. She remembered some shops—one full of
pictures, one with orange velvet and ermine. But what did
these signify >—nothing.

She was not at ease till they were in the train again.
Then she was relieved. So long as they were moving on-
wards, she was satisfied. They came to Ziirich, then,
before very long, ran under the mountains, that were deep
in snow. At last she was drawing near. This was the
other world now.

444 WOMEN IN LOVE

Innsbruck was wonderful, deep in snow, and evening. |

They drove in an open sledge over the snow : the train had

been so hot and stifling. And the hotel, with the golden

light glowing under the porch, seemed like a home.
They laughed with pleasure when they were in the hall.
The place seemed full and busy.
**Do you know if.Mr and Mrs Crich—English—from
Paris, have arrived ?”? Birkin asked in German.

The porter reflected a moment, and was just going to
answer, when Ursula caught sight of Gudrun sauntering ©
down the stairs, wearing her dark glossy coat, with grey -

fur.

**Gudrun! Gudrun! ” she called, waving up the well of He

the stairease. ‘* Shu-hu! ”’

Gudrun looked over the rail, and immediately lost her
sauntering, diffident air. Her eyes flashed.

** Really—Ursula! ’? she cried. And she began to move
downstairs as Ursula ran up. They met at a turn and
kissed with laughter and exclamations inarticulate and
stirring.

** But ! *? cried Gudrun, mortified. ‘* We thought it was
to-morrow you were coming! I wanted to come to the
station.”’

** No, we’ve come to-day!’ cried Ursula. ‘* Isn’t it
lovely here ! ”

** Adorable! ’? said Gudrun. ‘‘ Gerald’s just gone out to
get something. Ursula, aren’t you fearfully tired ?’’

** No, not so very. But I look a filthy sight,
don’t 1 ?”’

** No, you don’t. You look almost perfectly fresh. I
like that fur cap immensely!’’ She glanced over Ursula,
who wore a big soft coat with a collar of deep, soft, blond
fur, and a soft blond cap of fur. :

** And you!” cried Ursula. ‘* What do you think you
look like ! ”

Gudrun assumed an unconcerned, expressionless face. -

** Do you like it?’ she said.

** It’s very fine! ’’ cried Ursula, perhaps with a touch of
satire.

**Go up—or come down,”’ said Birkin. For there the
sisters stood, Gudrun with her hand on Ursula’s arm, on the
turn of the stairs half way to the first landing, blocking the
way, and affording full entertainment to the whole of the

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hall below, from the door porter to the plump Jew in black
clothes.

~The two young women slowly mounted, followed by
Birkin and the waiter.

** First floor??? asked Gudrun, looking back over her
shoulder.

“« Second Madam—the lift ! °? the waiter replied. And he
darted to the elevator to forestall the two women. But
they ignored him, as, chattering without heed, they set to
mount the second flight. Rather chagrined, ie waiter
followed.

It was curious, the delight of the sisters in each other, at
this meeting. It was as if they met in exile, and united
their solitary forces against all the world. Birkin looked
on with some mistrust and wonder.

When they had bathed and changed, Gerald came in. He
looked shining like the sun on frost.

**Go with Gerald and smoke,’’ said Ursula to Birkin.
** Gudrun and I want to talk.’’

Then the sisters sat in Gudrun’s bedroom, and talked
clothes, and experiences. Gudrun told Ursula the exper-
ience of the Birkin letter in the café. Ursula was shocked
and frightened.

** Where is the letter ?’’ she asked.

** I kept it,’’ said Gudrun.

** You’ll give it me, won’t you?” she said.

But Gudrun was silent for some moments, before she
rephied ;

* Do you really nail it, Ursula ?’’

** IT want to read it,”’ said Ursula.

** Certainly,’’ said Gudrun. 2

Even now, she could not admit, to Ursula, that she
wanted to keep it, as a memento, or a symbol. But Ursula
knew, and was not pleased. So the subject was switched
off.

‘© What did you do in Paris ?’? asked Ursula.

** Oh,”’ said Gudrun laconically—* the usual things. We
had a fine party one night in Fanny Bath’s studio.’

** Did you? And you and Gerald were there! Who
else? Tell me about it.’’

** Well,”? said Gudrun. ‘* There’s nothing particular to
tell. You know Fanny is frightfully in love with that
painter, Billy Macfarlane. He was there—so Fanny spared

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416 WOMEN IN LOVE Pk

nothing, she spent very freely. It was really remarkable! |
Of course, everybody got fearfully drunk—but in an inter-
esting way, not like that filthy London crowd. The fact is
these were all people that matter, which makes all the
difference. There was a Roumanian, a fine chap. He got
completely drunk, and climbed to the top of a high studio
ladder, and gave the most marvellous address—really,
Ursula, it was wonderful! He began in French—La vie,
c’est une affaire d’Ames impériales—in a most beautiful —
voice—he was a fine-looking chap—but he had got into
Roumanian before he had finished, and not a soul under-
stood. But Donald Gilchrist was worked to a frenzy. He
dashed his glass to the ground, and declared, by God, he
was glad he had been born, by God, it was a miracle to be
alive. And do you know, Ursula, so it was—’’? Gudrun
laughed rather hollowly.
** But how was Gerald among them all ?’’ asked Ursula.
** Gerald! Oh, my word, he came out like a dandelion
in the sun! He’s a whole saturnalia in himself, once he is
roused. I shouldn’t like to say whose waist his arm did
not go round. Really, Ursula, he seems to reap the women
like a harvest. There wasn’t one that would have resisted
him. It was too amazing! Can you understand it?’
Ursula reflected, and a dancing light came into her eyes.
** Yes,’’ she said. ‘**Ican. He is such a whole-hogger.”’
** Whole-hogger! I should think so! ”’ exclaimed Gud-
run. ‘* But it is true, Ursula, every woman in the room
was ready to surrender to him. Chanticleer isn’t in it—even
Fanny Bath, who is genuinely in love with Billy Macfar-
lane! I never was more, amazed in my life! And you
know, afterwards—I felt I was a whole roomful of women.
I was no more myself to him, than I was Queen Victoria.
I was a whole roomful of women at once. It was most
astounding! But my eye, I’d caught a Sultan that time—”’
Gudrun’s eyes were flashing, her cheek was hot, she
looked strange, exotic, satiric. | Ursula was fascinated at
once—and yet uneasy.
They had to get ready for dinner. Gudrun came down in
a daring gown of vivid green silk and tissue of gold, with
green velvet bodice and a strange black-and-white band
round her hair. She was really brilliantly beautiful and
everybody noticed her. Gerald was in that full-blooded,
gleaming state when he was most handsome. Birkin

CONTINENTAL 417
watched them with quick, laughing, half-sinister eyes, Ur-
sula quite lost her head. There seemed a spell, almost a
blinding spell, cast round their table, as if they were lighted
up more strongly than the rest of the dining-room. ~

‘** Don’t you love to be in this place?’’ cried Gudrun.
*¢ Isn’t the snow wonderful! Do you notice how it exalts
everything? It is simply marvellous. One really does feel
uibermenschlich—more than human.”’

** One does,’’ cried Ursula. ‘‘ But isn’t that partly the
being out of England ?”’

** Oh, of course,’’ cried Gudrun. ‘‘ One could never feel
like this in England, for the simple reason that the damper is
never lifted off one, there. It is quite impossible really to
let go, in England, of that I am assured.”’

And she turned again to the food she was eating. She
was fluttering with vivid intensity.

** It’s quite true,’’ said Gerald, ‘‘ it never is quite the
same in England. But perhaps we don’t want it to be—
perhaps it’s like bringing the light a little too near the
powder-magazine, to let go altogether, in England. One is
afraid what might happen, if everybody else let go.’

** My God! ”? cried Gudrun. ‘‘ But wouldn’t it be won-
derful, if all England did suddenly go off like a display of
fireworks.”’

** It couldn’t,’’ said Ursula. “* They are all too damp,
the powder is damp in them.”’

** I’m not so sure of that,”’ said Gerald.

** Nor I,”’ said Birkin. és When the English reales begin
to go off, en masse, it’li be time to shut your ears
and run.’’

** They never will,’’ said Ursula.

** We'll see,”’ he replied.

** Isn’t it marvellous,’’ said Gudrun, ‘** how thankful one

can be, to be out of one’s country. I cannot believe my-
_ self, I am so transported, the moment I set foot on a foreign
shore. I say to myself *‘ Here steps a new creature into
mc, 7

** Don’t be too hard on poor old England,”’ said Gerald.
** Though we curse it, we love it really.”’ .

To Ursula, there seemed a fund of cynicism in these
words.

** We may,” said Birkin. ‘* But it’s a damnably uncom-
fortable love : like a love for an aged parent who suffers

2D

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art, Fa OT a CON Pin ee au og Baal ae i ana
7 et, ri, eR ay i i AB eh ‘e
‘ eles Pie el ve a
ty ath .

418 '- wOMEN IN LOVE.”

horribly from a complication of diseases, for which there is —

no hope.’’

Gudrun looked at him with dilated dark eyes.

** You think there is no hope?’’ she asked, in her per-
tinent fashion.

But Birkin backed away. He would not answer such a
question.

** Any hope of England’s becoming real? God knows.

It’s a great actual unreality now, an aggregation into un- ©

reality. It might be real, if there were no Englishmen.”

** You think the English will have to disappear ?’’ per-
sisted Gudrun. It was strange, her pointed interest in his
answer. It might have been her own fate she was inquiring
after. Her dark, dilated eyes rested on Birkin, as if she
could conjure the truth of the future out of him, as out of
some instrument of divination.

He was pale. Then, reluctantly, he answered :

*€ Well—what else is in front of them, but disappearance ?
They’ve got to disappear from their own special brand of
Englishness, anyhow.”’

Gudrun watched him as if in a hypnotic state, her eyes
wide and fixed on him.

_* But in what way do you mean, disappear ?— ”’ she
persisted.

** Yes, do you mean a change of heart ?”’? put in Gerald.

**T don’t mean anything, why should I?’ said Birkin.
** 1’m an Englishman, and I’ve paid the price of it. I can’t
talk about England—I can only speak for myself.”

** Yes,’’? said Gudrun slowly, ‘** you love England im-
mensely, immensely, Rupert.”’

** And leave her,’’ he replied.

** No, not for good. You'll come back,”’ said Gerald,
nodding sagely.

‘* They say the lice crawl off a dying body,’ said Birkin,
with a glare of bitterness. ‘‘ So I leave England.”’

** Ah, but you’ll come back,” said Gudrun, with a sar-
donic smile.

‘* Tant pis pour moi,”’ he replied.

** Isn’t he angry with his mother country!’ laughed
Gerald, amused.

** Ah, a patriot! ’? said Gudrun, with something like a
sneer. |
Birkin refused to answer any more.

; i

CONTINEN DAL AG

Gudrun watched him still for a few seconds. Then she
turned away. It was finished, her spell of divination in
him. She felt already purely cynical. She looked at
Gerald. He was wonderful like a piece of radium to her.
She felt she could consume herself and know all, by means
of this fatal, living metal. She smiled to herself at her
fancy. And what would she do with herself, when she had
destroyed herself? For if spirit, if integral being is de-
structible, Matter is indestructible.

He was looking bright and abstracted, puzzled, for the
moment. She stretched out her beautiful arm, with its
fluff of green tulle, and touched his chin with her subtle,
artist’s fingers. -

** What are they then ?”’ she asked, with a strange, know-
ing smile.

** What ?’’ he replied, his eyes suddenly dilating with
wonder.

** Your thoughts.”’

Gerald looked like a man coming awake.

** I think I had none,”’ he said.

** Really ! ’? she said, with grave laughter in her voice.

And to Birkin it was as if she killed Gerald, with that
touch.

** Ah but,’’ cried Gudrun, ‘‘ let us drink to Britannia—
let us drink to Britannia.”

It seemed there was wild despair in her voice. Gerald
laughed, and filled the glasses.

** I think Rupert means,”’ he said, ** that nationally all
Englishmen must die, so that they can exist individually
and— 399

** Super-nationally— *’ put in Gudrun, with a slight ironic
grimace, raising her glass.

The next day, they descended at the tiny railway station
of Hohenhausen, at the end of the tiny valley railway. It
was snow everywhere, a white, perfect cradle of snow, new
and frozen, sweeping up an either side, black crags, and
white sweeps of silver towards the blue pale heavens.

As they stepped out on the naked platform, with only
snow around and above, Gudrun shrank as if it chilled her
heart.

** My God, Jerry,’’ she said, turning to Gerald with sud-
den intimacy, ‘* you’ve done it now.’’

s* What ?””

Rue Pe nL cand A RS a RI Se Oo
. y x ae Se t 4 ie

420 WOMEN,_IN LOVE

: 6 made a faint gesture, indicating the word on either
an

** Look at it! *

She seemed afraid to go on. He laughed.

They were in the heart of the mountains. From high
above, on either side, swept down the white fold of snow, so
that one seemed small and tiny in a valley of
pure concrete heaven, all strangely radiant and changeless
and silent.

** It makes one feel so small and alone,’’ said Ursula,
turning to Birkin and laying her hand on his arm.

** You’re not sorry you’ve come, are you?’ said Gerald
to Gudrun. }
She looked doubtful. They went out of the station be-

tween banks of snow.

** Ah,”’ said Gerald, sniffing the air in elation, * this is
perfect. There’s our sledge. We’ll walk a bit—we’ll run
up the road.”’

Gudrun, always doubtful, dropped her heavy coat on the
sledge, as he did his, and they set off. Suddenly she threw
up her head and set off scudding along the road of snow,
pulling her cap down over her ears. Her blue, bright dress
fluttered in the wind, her thick scarlet stockings were bril-
hiant above the whiteness. Gerald watched her : she seemed
to be rushing towards her fate, and leaving him behind. He
let her get some distance, then, loosening his imbs, he went
after her.

Everywhere was deep and silent snow. Great snow-eaves
weighed down the broad-roofed Tyrolese houses, that were
sunk to the window-sashes in snow. Peasant-women, full-
skirted, wearing each a cross-over shawl, and thick snow-
boots, turned in the way to look at the soft, determined girl
running with such heavy fieetness from the man, who was
overtaking her, but not gaining any power over her.

They passed the inn with its painted shutters and bal-
cony, a few cottages, half buried in the snow; then the
snow-buried silent saw-mill by the roofed bridge, which
crossed the hidden stream, over which they ran into the
very depth of the untouched sheets of snow. It was a
silence and a sheer whiteness exhilarating to madness. But
the perfect silence was most terrifying, isolating the soul,
surrounding the heart with frozen air.

** It’s a marvellous place, for all that,’? said Gudrun,

CONTINENTAL 421

looking into his eyes with a strange, meaning look. His
soul leapt.
** Good,”’ he said.

A fierce electric energy seemed to flow over all his limbs,
his muscles were surcharged, his hands felt hard with
strength. They walked along rapidly up the snow-road,
that was marked by withered branches of trees. stuck in at
intervals. He and she were separate, like opposite poles of
one fierce energy. But they felt powerful enough to leap
over the confines of life into the forbidden places, and
back again.

Birkin and Ursula were running along also, over the snow.
’ He had disposed of the luggage, and they had a little start
of the sledges. Ursula was excited and happy, but she kept
turning suddenly to catch hold of Birkin’s arm, to make
sure of him.

** This is something I never expected,’’ she said. ‘* It
is a different world, here.’’

They went on into a snow meadow. ‘There they were
overtaken by the sledge, that came tinkling through the
silence. It was another mile before they came upon Gud-
run and Gerald on the steep up-climb, beside the pink, half-
buried shrine.

Then they passed into a gulley, where were walls of black
rock and a river filled with snow, and a still blue sky above.
Through a covered bridge they went, drumming roughly
over the boards, crossing the snow-bed once more, then
slowly up and up, the horses walking swiftly, the driver
cracking his long whip as he walked beside, and calling his
strange wild hue-hue!, the walls of rock passing slowly by,
till they emerged again between slopes and masses of snow.
Up and up, gradually they went, through the cold shadow-
radiance of the afternoon, silenced by the imminence of the
mountains, the luminous, dazing sides of snow that rose
above them and fell away beneath.

They came forth at last in a little high table-land of snow,
where stood the last peaks of snow like the heart petals of
an open rose. In the midst of the last deserted valleys of
heaven stood a lonely building with brown wooden walls and
white heavy roof, deep and deserted in the waste of snow,
like a dream. It stood like a rock that had rolled down
from the last steep slopes, a rock that had taken the form of
a house, and was now half-buried, It was unbelievable that

3s

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PR Re hee Mit Soh thal has” PN SSAA Pret Cone eRr A er ake ge
nt pie dai MMe EES og i

422 WOMEN IN LOVE

one could live there uncrushed by all this terrible waste of —
whiteness and silence and clear, upper, ringing cold. .

Yet the sledges ran up in fine style, people came to the
door laughing and excited, the floor of the hostel rang hol-
low, the passage was wet with snow, it was a real, warm —
interior.

The new-comers tramped up the bare wooden stairs, fol-
lowing the serving woman. Gudrun and Gerald took the —
first bedroom. In a moment they found themselves alone
in a bare, smallish, close-shut room that was all of golden- |
coloured wood, floor, walls, ceiling, door, all of the same
warm gold panelling of oiled pine. There was a window
opposite the door, but low down, because the roof sloped.-
Under the slope of the ceiling were the table with wash-hand
bowl and jug, and across, another table with mirror. On
either side the door were two beds piled high with an enor-
mous blue-checked overbolster, enormous.

This was all—no cupboard, none of the amenities of life.
Here they were shut up together in this cell of golden- _
coloured wood, with two blue checked beds. They looked
at each other and laughed, frightened by this naked nearness
of isolation.

A man knocked and came in with the luggage. He was a
study fellow with flattish cheek-bones, rather pale, and with
coarse fair moustache. Gudrun watched him put down the
bags, in silence, then tramp heavily out.

** It isn’t too rough, is it?’? Gerald asked.

The bedroom was not very warm, and she shivered
slightly.

‘* Tt is wonderful,’? she equivocated. ‘* Look at the
colour of this panelling—it’s wonderful, like being inside a
nut.’’

He was standing watching her, feeling his short-cut
moustache, leaning back slightly and watching her with his
keen, undaunted eyes, dominated by the constant passion,
that was like a doom upon him.

She went and crouched down in front of the window,
curious.

‘‘ Oh, but this—!°’ she cried involuntarily, almost in

ain.

3 In front was a valley shut in under the sky, the last huge
slopes of snow and black rock, and at the end, like the navel
of the earth, a white-folded wall, and two peaks glimmering

_ -« La
7 A
tes
Pak is
4. | a

CONTINENTAL | 428

in the late light. Straight in front ran the cradle of silent

snow, between the great slopes that were fringed with a
little roughness of pine-trees, like hair, round the base. But
the cradle of snow ran on to the eternal closing-in, where
the walls of snow and rock rose impenetrable, and the
mountain peaks above were in heaven immediate. This
was the centre, the knot, the navel of the world, where the
earth belonged to the skies, pure, unapproachable, impas-
sable.

It filled Gudrun with a strange rapture. She crouched in
front of the window, clenching her face in her hands, in a
sort of trance. At last she had arrived, she had reached
her place. Here at last she folded her venture
and settled down bke a crystal in the navel of snow, and
was gone.

Gerald bent suave her and was looking out over her
shoulder. Already he felt he was alone. She was gone.
She was completely gone, and there was icy vapour round
his heart. He saw the blind valley, the great cul-de-sac of
snow and mountain peaks, under the heaven. And there
was no way out. The terrible silence and cold and the
glamorous whiteness of the dusk wrapped him round, and
she remained crouching before the window, ¢ as at a shrine, a
shadow.

** Do you like it?’ he asked, in a voice that sounded de-
tached and foreign. At least she might acknowledge he was
with her. But she only averted her soft, mute face a little
from his gaze. And he knew that there were tears in her
eyes, her own tears, tears of her strange religion, that put
him to nought.

Quite suddenly, he put his hand under her chin and lifted
up her face to him. Her dark blue eyes, in their wetness of
tears, dilated as if she was startled in her very soul. They
looked at him through their tears in terror and a little

horror. His light blue eyes were keen, small-pupilled and

unnatural in their vision. Her lips parted, as she breathed
with difficulty.

The passion came up in him, stroke after stroke, like the
ringing of a bronze bell, so strong and unflawed and in-
domitable. His knees tightened to bronze as he hung above
her soft face, whose lips parted and whose eyes dilated in a
strange violation. In the grasp of his hand her chin was
unutterably soft and silken. He felt strong as winter, his

mt” Tee ee I ke, Re, caked) Lm es oe ee a o"
aT PR, PE eh TS My aR Reed Ey i a a
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424 WOMEN IN LOVE

hands were living metal, invincible and not to be turned
aside. His heart rang like a bell clanging inside him.

He took her up in his arms. She was soft and inert, —
motioniess. All the while her eyes, in which the tears had
not yet dried, were dilated as if in a kind of swoon of fas-
- cination and helplessness. He was super-humanly strong,
and unflawed, as if invested with supernatural force.

He lifted her close and folded her against him. Her
softness, her inert, relaxed weight lay against his own sur-
charged, bronze-like limbs in a heaviness of desirability that
would destroy him, if he were not fulfilled. She moved con-
_vulsively, recoiling away from him. His heart went up like
a flame of ice, he closed over her like steel. He would de-
stroy her rather than be denied.

But the overweening power of his body was too much for
her. She relaxed again, and lay loose and soft, panting in
a little delirium. And to him, she was so sweet, she was
such bliss of release, that he would have suffered a whole
eternity of torture: rather than forego one second of this
pang of unsurpassable bliss.

** My God,”’ he said to her, his face drawn and strange,
transfigured, ‘* what next ?”’

She lay perfectly still, with a still, child-like face and
dark eyes, looking at him. She was lost, fallen right away.

** T shall always love you,”’ he said, looking at her.

But she did not hear. She lay, looking at him as at some-
thing she could never understand, never : as a child looks at
a& grown-up person, without hope of understanding, only
submitting.

He kissed her, kissed her eyes shut, so that she could not
look any more. He wanted something now, some recogni-
tion, some sign, some admission. But she only lay silent
and child-like and remote, like a child that is overcome and —
cannot understand, only feels lost. He kissed her again,
giving up.

** Shall we go down and have coffee and Kuchen?’’ he
asked.

The twilight was falling slate-blue at the window. She
closed her eyes, closed away the monotonous level of dead
wonder, and opened them again to the every-day world.

** Yes,’’ she said briefly, regaining her will with a click.
She went again to the window. Blue evening had fallen
over the cradle of snow and over the great pallid slopes,

CONTINENTAL 425

But in the heaven the peaks of snow were rosy, glistening
like transcendent, radiant spikes of blossom in the heavenly
upper-world, so lovely and beyond.

Gudrun saw all their loveliness, she knew how immortally
beautiful they were, great pistils of rose-coloured, snow-fed
fire in the blue twilight of the heaven. She could see it,
she knew it, but she was not of it. She was divorced, de-
barred, a soul shut out.

With a last look of remorse, she turned away, and was
doing her hair. He had unstrapped the luggage, and was
waiting, watching her. She knew he was watching her. It
made her a little hasty and feverish in her precipitation.

They went downstairs, both with a strange other-world
look on their faces, and with a glow in their eyes. They
saw Birkin and Ursula sitting at the long table in a corner,
waiting for them.

** How good and simple they look together,’’ Gudrun
thought, jealously. She envied them some spontaneity, a
childish sufficiency to which she herself could never
approach. They seemed such children to her.

** Such good Kranzkuchen! *? cried Ursula greedily.
** So good ! ”

** Right,’”? said Gudrun. ‘* Can we have Kaffee mit
Kranzkuchen ?’? she added to the waiter.

And she seated herself on the bench beside Gerald. Bir-
kin, looking at them, felt a pain of tenderness for them.

** I think the place is really wonderful, Gerald,’’ he said;
** prachtvoll and wunderbar and wunderschén and unbe-
schreiblich and all the other German adjectives.’’

Gerald broke into a slight smile.

‘* T like it,’’ he said.

The tables, of white scrubbed wood, were placed round
three sides of the room, as in a Gasthaus. Birkin and
Ursula sat with their backs to the wall, which was of oiled
wood, and Gerald and Gudrun sat in the corner next them,
near to the stove. It was a fairly large place, with a tiny
bar, just like a country inn, but quite simple and bare, and
all of oiled wood, ceilings and walls and floor, the only fur-
niture being the tables and benches going round three sides,
the great green stove, and the bar and the doors on the
fourth side. The windows were double, and quite uncur-
tained. It was early evening.

The coffee came—hot and good—and a whole ring of cake.

426 WOMEN IN LOVE

** A whole Kuchen! ”’ cried Ursula. ‘* They give you —
more than us! I want some of yours.”’

There were other people in the place, ten altogether, so
Birkin had found out: two artists, three students, a man
and wife, and a Professor and two daughters—all Germans.
The four English people, being newcomers, sat in their coign
of vantage to watch. The Germans peeped in at the door,
called a word to the waiter, and went away again. It was
not meal-time, so they did not come into this dining-room,
but betook themselves, when their boots were changed, to
the Reunionsaal.

The English visitors could hear the occasional twanging
of a zither, the strumming of a piano, snatches of laughter
and shouting and singing, a faint vibration of voices. The
whole building being of wood, it seemed to carry every
sound, like a drum, but instead of increasing each particu-
lar noise, it decreased it, so that the sound of the zither
seemed tiny, as if a diminutive zither were playing some-
where, and it seemed the piano must be a small one, like a
little spinet.

The host came when the coffee was finished. He was a
Tyrolese, broad, rather flat-cheeked, with a pale, pock-
marked skin and flourishing moustaches. |

** Would you like to go to the Reunionsaal to be intro-
duced to the other ladies and gentlemen ?”’ he asked, bend-
ing forward and smiling, showing his large, strong teeth. —
His blue eyes went quickly from one to the other—he was
not quite sure of his ground with these English people. He
was unhappy too because he spoke no English and he was
not sure whether to try his French.

** Shall we go to the Reunionsaal, and be introduced to
the other people ?’’ repeated Gerald, laughing.

There was a moment’s hesitation.

** IT suppose we’d better—better break the ice,’’ said
Birkin.

The women rose, rather flushed. And the Wirt’s
black, beetle-like, broad-shouldered figure went on
ignominiously in front, towards the noise. He opened
the door and ushered the four strangers into the
play-room.

Instantly a silence fell, a slight embarrassment came over
the company. The newcomers had a sense of many blond ©
faces looking their way. Then, the host was bowing to a

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CONTINENTAL 427

short, energetic-looking man with large moustaches, and
saying in a low voice :

** Herr Professor, darf ich vorstellen— ”’

The Herr Professor was prompt and energetic. He bowed
low to the English people, smiling, and began to be a com-
rade at once. ;
_ ** Nehmen die Herrschaften teil an unserer Unterhal-
tung?’ he said, with a vigorous suavity, his voice curling
up in the question.

The four English people smiled, lounging with an atten-
tive uneasiness in the middle of the room. Gerald, who was
spokesman, said that they would willingly take part in the
entertainment. Gudrun and Ursula, laughing, excited, felt
the eyes of all the men upon them, and they lifted their
heads and looked nowhere, and felt royal.

The Professor announced the names of those present, sans
cérémonie. There was a bowing to the wrong people and
_ to the right people. Everybody was there, except the man
and wife. The two tall, clear-skinned, athletic daughters
of the professor, with their plain-cut, dark blue blouses and
loden skirts, their rather long, strong necks, their clear blue
eyes and carefully banded hair, and their blushes, bowed
and stood back; the three students bowed very low, in the
humble hope of making an impression of extreme good-
breeding ; then there was a thin, dark-skinned man with full
eyes, an odd creature, like a child, and like a troll, quick,
detached; he bowed slightly; his companion, a large fair
young man, stylishly dressed, blushed to the eyes and
bowed very low.

It was over.

** Herr Loerke was giving us a recitation in the Cologne
dialect,’’ said the Professor.

‘* He must forgive us for interrupting him,’ said Gerald,
** we should like very much to hear it.’’

There was instantly a bowing and an offering of seats.
Gudrun and Ursula, Gerald and Birkin sat in the deep sofas
against the wall. The room was of naked oiled pannelling,
like the rest of the house. It had a piano, sofas and chairs,
and a couple of tables with books and magazines. In its
complete absence of decoration, save for the big, blue stove,
it was cosy and pleasant.

Herr Loerke was the little man with the boyish figure, and
the round, full, sensitive-looking head, and the quick, full

or ee SL eo. Oe ie

428 WOMEN IN LOVE

eyes, like a mouse’s. He glanced swiftly from one to the
other of the strangers, and held himself aloof.

** Please go on with the recitation,’’ said the Professor,
suavely, with his slight authority. Loerke, who was sitting
hunched on the piano stool, blinked and did not
answer. i

** It would be a great pleasure,’’ said Ursula, who had

been getting the sentence ready, in German, for some
minutes.
- Then, suddenly, the small, unresponding man swung
aside, towards his previous audience and broke forth,
exactly as he had broken off; in a controlled, mocking voice,
giving an imitation of a quarrel between an old Cologne
woman and a railway guard.

His body -was slight and unformed, like a boy’s, but his
voice was mature, sardonic, its movement had the flexi-
bility of essential energy, and of a mocking penetrating
understanding. Gudrun could not understand a word of
his monologue, but she was spell-bound, watching him. He
must be an artist, nobody else could have such fine adjust-
ment and singleness. The Germans were doubled up with
laughter, hearing his strange droll words, his droll phrases
of dialect. And in the midst of their paroxysms, they
glanced with deference at the four English strangers, the
elect. Gudrun and Ursula were forced to laugh. The room
rang with shouts of laughter. The blue eyes of the Profes-
sor’s daughters were swimming over with laughter-tears,
their clear cheeks were flushed crimson with mirth, ‘their
father broke out in the most astonishing peals of hilarity,
the students bowed their heads on their knees in excess of
joy. Ursula looked round amazed, the laughter was bub-
bling out of her involuntarily. She looked at Gudrun.
Gudrun looked at her, and the two sisters burst out laugh-
ing, carried away. Loerke glanced at them swiftly, with his
full eyes. Birkin was sniggering involuntarily. Gerald
Crich sat erect, with a glistening look of amusement on his
face. And the laughter crashed out again, in wild
paroxysms, the Professor’s daughters were reduced to shak-
ing helplessness, the veins of the Professor’s neck were
swollen, his face was purple, he was strangled in ultimate,
silent spasms of laughter. The students were shouting half-
articulated words that tailed off in helpless explosions. Then
suddenly the rapid patter of the artist ceased, there were

faith. 4 Ola aaa AR
CONTINENTAL | 429

little whoops of subsiding mirth, Ursula and Gudrun were
- wiping their eyes, and the Professor was crying: loudly.

** Das war ausgezeichnet, das war famos—

‘*‘ Wirklich famos,’? echoed his exhausted daughters, .
faintly.

** And we couldn’t understand it,’’ cried Ursula.

** Oh leider, leider! ’’ cried the Professor.

** You couldn’t understand it?’’ cried the Students, let
loose at last in speech with the newcomers. ‘“‘ Ja, das ist
wirklich schade, das ist schade, gnidige Frau. Wissen
Sie— ’*’

The mixture was made, the newcomers were stirred into
the party, like new ingredients, the whole room was alive.
Gerald was in his element, he talked freely and excitedly,
his face glistened with a strange amusement. Perhaps even
Birkin, in the end, would break forth. He was shy and
withheld, though full of attention.

Ursula was prevailed upon to sing ‘* Annie Lowrie,’’ as
the Professor called it. There was a hush of extreme de-
ference. She had never been so flattered in her life. Gud-
run accompanied her on the piano, playing from memory.

Ursula had a beautiful ringing voice, but usually no con-
fidence, she spoiled everything. This evening she felt con-
ceited and untrammelled. Birkin was well in the back-
ground, she shone almost in reaction, the Germans made
her feel fine and infallible, she was liberated into overween-
ing self-confidence. She felt like a bird flying in the air, as

_ her voice soared out, enjoying herself extremely in the
balance and flight of the song, like the motion of a bird’s
wings that is up in the wind, sliding and playing on the air,
she played with sentimentality, supported by rapturous
attention. She was very happy, singing that song by her-
self, full of a conceit of emotion and power, working upon
all those people, and upon herself, exerting herself with
gratification, giving immeasurable gratification to the
Germans.

At the end, the Germans were all touched with admiring,
delicious melancholy, they praised her in soft, reverent
voices, they could not say too much.

*¢ Wie schon, wie riihrend! Ach, die Schotitischen Lieder,
sie haben so viel Stimmung! Aber die gnadige Frau hat
eine wunderbare Stimme ; die gnadige Frau ist wirklich eine
Kiinstlerin, aber wirklich !’’

toe nee er) ie be >a ce a!) peo ie Oe fen”. hee Wwe dha
Viti Rees Cia) Ut ea Pee 2 tt, We og ee Prt a le
nate he ee) ies Cate tee
ry Meer Pa a sede

430 WOMEN IN LOVE

She was dilated and brilliant, like a flower in the morning
sun. She felt Birkin looking at her, as if he were jealous of
her, and her breasts thrilled, her veins were all golden. She
was as happy as the sun that has just opened above clouds.
And everybody seemed so admiring and radiant, it was
perfect.

After dinner she wanted to go out for a minute, to look
at the world. The company tried to dissuade her—it was
so terribly cold. But just to look, she said.

They all four wrapped up warmly, and found themselves
in a vague, unsubstantial outdoors of dim snow and ghosts
of an upper-world, that made strange shadows before the
stars. It was indeed cold, bruisingly, frighteningly, un-_
naturally cold. Ursula could not believe the air in her
nostrils. It seemed conscious, malevolent, purposive in its
intense murderous coldness.

Yet it was wonderful, an intoxication, a silence of ainas |
unrealised snow, of the invisible intervening between her
and the visible, between her and the flashing stars. She
could see Orion sloping up. How wonderful he was, won-
derful enough to make one cry aloud.

And all around was this cradle of snow, and there was
firm snow underfoot, that struck with heavy cold through
her boot-soles. It was night, and silence. She imagined
she could hear the stars. She imagined distinctly she could
hear the celestial, musical motion of the stars, quite near
at hand. She seemed like a bird flying amongst their har-
monious motion.

And she clung close to Birkin. Suddenly she realised she
did not know what he was thinking. She did not know
where he was ranging.

** My love! ’’ she said, stopping to look at him.

His face was pale, his eyes dark, there was a
faint spark of starlight on them. And he saw her face
soft and upturned to him, very near. He kissed her
softly.

*¢ What then ?’’ he asked.

** Do you love me ?’’ she asked.

‘* Too much,’’ he answered quietly.

She clung a little closer.

** Not too much,”’ she pleaded.

‘* Far too much,’’ he said, almost sadly.

** And does it make you sad, that 1 am everything to

CONTINENTAL 431
you ?”’ she asked, wistful. He held her close to him, kissing
her, and saying, ‘scarcely audible :

** No, but I feel like a beggar—I feel poor.”’

She was silent, looking at the stars now. Then she kissed
him.

** Don’t be a beggar,’’ she pleaded, wistfully. ‘* It isn’t
ignominious that you love me.’

** It is ignominious to feel poor, isn’t it?’? he replied.

-* Why? Why should it be?’’ she asked. He only stood
still, in the terribly cold air that moved invisibly over the
mountain tops, folding her round with his arms.

** IT couldn’t bear this cold, eternal place without you,”’
he said. ‘* I couldn’t bear it, it would kill the quick of my
lite.??

She kissed him again, suddenly.

** Do you hate it ?’? she asked, puzzled, wondering.

** If I couldn’t come near to you, if you weren’t here, I
should hate it. I couldn’t bear it,’? he answered.

** But the people are nice,”’ she said.

** I mean the stillness, the cold, the frozen sheranlany a
he said.

She wondered. Then her spirit came home to him, nest-
ling unconscious in him.

** Yes, it is good we are warm and together,’ she said.

And they turned home again. They saw the golden
lights of the hotel glowing out in the night of snow-silence,
small in the hollow, like a cluster of yellow berries. It
seemed like a bunch of sun-sparks, tiny and orange in the

_ midst of the snow-darkness. Behind, was a high shadow of
a peak, blotting out the stars, like a ghost.
~ They drew near to their home. They saw a man come
from the dark building, with a lighted lantern which swung
golden, and made that his dark feet walked in a halo of
snow. He was a small, dark figure in the darkened snow.
He unlatched the door of an outhouse. A smell of cows,
hot, animal, almost like beef, came out on the heavily cold
air. There was a glimpse of two cattle in their dark stalls,
then the door was shut again, and not a chink of light
showed. It had reminded Ursula again of home, of the
Marsh, of her childhood, and of the journey to Brussels,

and, strangely, of Anton Skrebensky.

Oh, God, could one bear it, this past which was gone

down the abyss? Could she bear, that it ever had been!

—

432 WOMEN IN LOVE

She looked round this silent, upper world of snow and
stars and powerful cold. There was another world, like
views on a magic lantern; The Marsh, Cossethay, Ilkeston,
lit up with a common, unreal light. There was a shadowy
unreal Ursula, a whole shadow-play of an unreal life. It
was as unreal, and circumscribed, as a magic-lantern show.
She wished the slides could all be broken. She wished it
could be gone for ever, like a lantern-slide which was broken.
She wanted to have no past. She wanted to have come
down from the slopes of heaven to this place, with Birkin,
not to have toiled out of the murk of her childhood and her
upbringing, slowly, all soiled. She felt that memory was a
dirty trick played upon her. What was this decree, that she
should ‘ remember’! Why not a bath of pure oblivion, a
new birth, without any recollections or blemish of a past
life. She was with Birkin, she had just come into life, here
in the high snow, against the stars. What had she to do
with parents and antecedents? She knew herself new and
unbegotten, she had no father, no mother, no anterior con-
nections, she was herself, pure and silvery, she belonged
only to the oneness with Birkin, a oneness that struck
deeper notes, sounding into the heart of the uni-
verse, the heart of reality, where she had _ never
existed before.

Even Gudrun was a separate unit, separate, separate,
having nothing to do with this self, this Ursula, in her new
world of reality. That old shadow-world, the actuality of
the past—ah, let it go! She rose free on the wings of her
new condition. .

Gudrun and Gerald had not come in. They had walked
up the valley straight in front of the house, not like Ursula
and Birkin, on to the little hill at the right. Gudrun was
driven by a strange desire. She wanted to plunge on and

on, till she came to the end of the valley of snow. Then she -

wanted to climb the wall of white finality, climb over, into
the peaks that sprang up like sharp petals in the heart of the
frozen, mysterious navel of the world. She felt that there,
over the strange blind, terrible wall of rocky snow, there in
the navel of the mystic world, among the final cluster of
peaks, there, in the infolded navel of it all, was her con-
summation. If she could but come there, alone, and pass
into the infolded navel of eternal snow and of uprising, im-
mortal peaks of snow and rock, she would be a oneness with

Ay AMAR) Se ne SP Rae
PE are ia), et,
ere > ‘3

CONTINENTAL 433

all, she would be herself the eternal, infinite silence, the
. sleeping, timeless, frozen centre of the All.

They went back to the house, to the Reunionsaal. She
was curious to see what was going on. The men there
made her alert, roused her curiosity. It was a new taste of
life for her, they were so prostrate before her, yet so full of
life.

The party was boisterous ; they were dancing all together,
dancing the Schuhplatteln, the Tyrolese dance of the clap-
ping hands and tossing the partner in the air at the crisis.
The Germans were all proficient—they were from Munich
chiefly. Gerald also was quite passable. There were three
zithers twanging away in acorner. It was a scene of great
animation and confusion. The professor was initiating
Ursula into the dance, stamping, clapping, and swinging her
high, with amazing force and zest. When the crisis came
even Birkin was behaving manfully with one of the profes-
sor’s fresh, strong daughters, who was exceedingly happy.
Everybody was dancing, there was the most boisterous
turmoil.

Gudrun looked on with delight. The solid wooden floor
resounded to the knocking heels of the men, the air quivered
with the clapping hands and the zither music, there was a
golden dust about the hanging lamps.

Suddenly the dance finished, Loerke and the students
rushed out to bring in drinks. There was an excited
clamour of voices, a clinking of mug-lids, a great crying of
_ ** Prosit—Prosit ! *? Loerke was everywhere at once, like a
gnome, suggesting drinks for the women, making an
obscure, slightly risky joke with the men, confusing and
_ mystifying the waiter.

He wanted very much to dance with Gudrun. From the
first moment he had seen her, he wanted to make a connec-
tion with her. Instinctively she felt this, and she waited
for him to come up. But a kind of sulkiness kept him away
from her, so she thought he disliked her.

‘* Will you schuhpletteln, gnidige Frau?” said the large,
fair youth, Loerke’s companion. He was too soft, too
humble for Gudrun’s taste. But she wanted to dance, and
the fair youth, who was called Leitner, was handsome
enough in his uneasy, slightly abject fashion, a humility
that covered a certain fear. She accepted him as a partner.

The zithers sounded out again, the dance began. Gerald

2E

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fj } j ais! a ee ees

434 WOMEN IN LOVE

led them, laughing, with one of the Professor’s daughters.
Ursula danced with one of the students, Birkin with the
other daughter of the Professor, the Professor with Frau
Kramer, and the rest of the men danced together, with
quite as much zest as if they had had women partners.

Because Gudrun had danced with the well-built, soft
youth, his companion, Loerke was more pettish and exas-
perated than ever, and would not even notice her existence
in the room. This piqued her, but she made up to herself
by dancing with the professor, who was strong as a mature,
well-seasoned bull, and as full of coarse energy. She could
not bear him, critically, and yet she enjoyed being rushed
through the dance, and tossed up into the air, on his coarse, -
powerful impetus. The professor enjoyed it too, he eyed
her with strange, large blue eyes, full of galvanic fire. She
hated him for the seasoned, semi-paternal animalism with
which he regarded her, but she admired his weight of
strength.

The room was charged with excitement and strong,
animal emotion. Loerke was kept away from Gudrun, to
whom he wanted to speak, as by a hedge of thorns, and he
felt a sardonic ruthless hatred for this young love-com-
panion, Leitner, who was his penniless dependent. He
mocked the youth, with an acid ridicule, that made Leitner
red in the face and impotent with resentment.

Gerald, who had now got the dance perfectly, was dancing
again with the younger of the Professor’s daughters, who
was almost dying of virgin excitement, because she thought
Gerald so handsome, so superb. He had her in his power,
as if she were a palpitating bird, a fluttering, flushing, be-
wildered creature. And it made him smile, as she shrank
convulsively between his hands, violently, when he must
throw her into the air. At the end, she was so overcome
with prostrate love for him, that she could scarcely speak
sensibly at all.

Birkin was dancing with Ursula. There were odd little
fires playing in his eyes, he seemed to have turned into
something wicked and flickering, mocking, suggestive, quite
impossible. Ursula was frightened of him, and ‘fascinated.
Clear, before her eyes, as in a vision, she could see the
sardonic, licentious mockery of his eyes, he moved towards
her with subtle, animal, indifferent approach. The strange-
ness of his hands, which came quick and cunning, inevit-

Se IY A el a ee ee eg ee el im eee,
ibe tee yet) Pesos yee ely PREM ese dt cey Gale ime riery aly Sel

1 POS hae Ls ae ae and | i h \ pe

t P “ye r pA rt an) fa
7 w

CONTINENTAL | 485

ably to the vital place beneath her breasts, and, lifting with
mocking, suggestive impulse, carried her through the air as
if without strength, through black-magic, made her swoon
with fear. For a moment she revolted, it was horrible.
She would break the spell. But before the resolution had
formed she had submitted again, yielded to her fear. He
knew all the time what he was doing, she could see it in his
smiling, concentrated eyes. It was his responsibility, she
would leave it to him. .

When they were alone in the darkness, she felt the
strange, licentiousness of him hovering upon her. She was
troubled and repelled. Why should he turn like this.

** What is it?’? she asked in dread.

But his face only glistened on her, unknown, horrible.
And yet she was fascinated. Her impulse was to repel him
violently, break from this spell of mocking brutishness.
But she was too fascinated, she wanted to submit, she
wanted to know. What would he do to her?

He was so attractive, and so repulsive at once. The sar-
donic suggestivity that flickered over his face and looked
from his narrowed eyes, made her want to hide, to hide her-
self away from him and watch him from somewhere unseen.

** Why are you like this ?’? she demanded again, rousing
against him with sudden force and animosity.

The flickering fires in his eyes concentrated as he looked
into her eyes. Then the lids drooped with a faint motion
of satiric contempt. Then they rose again to the same re-
morseless suggestivity. And she gave way, he might do
as he would. His licentiousness was repulsively attractive.
But he was self-responsible, she would see what it was.

They might do as they liked—this she realised as:she went
to sleep. How could anything that gave one satisfaction be
excluded? What was degrading? Who cared? Degrad-
ing things were real, with a different reality. And he was
so unabashed and unrestrained. Wasn’t it rather horrible,
a man who could be so soulful and spiritual, now to be so—
she balked at her own thoughts and memories : then she
added—so bestial? So bestial, they two !—so degraded !
She winced. But after all, why not? She exulted as well.
Why not be bestial, and go the whole round of experience ?
She exulted init. She was bestial. How good it was to be
really shameful! There would be no shameful thing she
had not experienced. Yet she was unabashed, she was her-

he oe Sie TEE Oy Nis OR ee es OF en eh Te Be a oe 2 dle ree in gulr®*
TE a et ee eg an) Mg? ea Bie a ee ae
“i F441 Cari tr aot Se avy OM CRT Pee eas Hetetass

436 WOMEN IN LOVE .

self. Why not? She was free, when she knew everything,
and no dark shameful things were denied her.

Gudrun, who had been watching Gerald in the Reunion-
saal, suddenly thought :

** He should have all the women he can—it is his nature.
It is absurd to call him monogamous—he is naturally pro-_
miscuous. That is his nature.’’ .

The thought came to her involuntarily. It shocked her
somewhat. It was as if she had seen some new Mene!
Mene! upon the wall. Yet it was merely true. A voice
seemed to have spoken it to her so clearly, that for the
moment she believed in inspiration.

** It is really true,”’ she said to herself again.

She knew quite well she had believed it all along. She
knew it implicitly. But she must keep it dark—almost
from herself. She must keep it completely secret. It was
knowledge for her alone, and scarcely even to be admitted
to herself.

The deep resolve formed in her, to combat him. One of
them must triumph over the other. Which should it be?
Her soul steeled itself with strength. Almost she laughed
within herself, at her confidence. It woke a certain keen,
half contemptuous pity, tenderness for him: she was so
ruthless.

Everybody retired early. The professor and Loerke went
into a small lounge to drink. They both watched Gudrun
go along the landing by the railing upstairs.

‘* Kin sch6nes Frauenzimmer,’’ said the Professor.

** Ja!’ asserted Loerke, shortly.

Gerald walked with his queer, long wolf-steps across the
bedroom to the window, stooped and looked out, then rose
again, and turned to Gudrun, his eyes sharp with an
abstract smile. He seemed very tall to her, she saw the
glisten of his whitish eyebrows, that met between his brows.

** How do you like it ?’’ he said.

He seemed to be laughing inside himself, quite uncon-
sciously. She looked at him. He was a phenomenon to
her, not a human being: a sort of creature, greedy.

‘* T like it very much,” she replied.

‘* Who do you like best downstairs ?’’ he asked, standing
tall and glistening above her, with his glistening stiff hair
erect.

** Who do I like best ?’’ she repeated, wanting to answer

CONTINENTAL 487

his question, and finding it difficult to collect herself.
** Why I don’t know, I don’t know enough about them yet,
to be able to say. Who do yow like best ?”’

** Oh, I don’t care—I don’t like or dislike any of them.
It doesn’t matter about me. I wanted to know about

‘Ou. 393

** But why ?”’ she asked, going rather pale. The abstract,
unconscious smile in his eyes was intensified.

** T wanted to know,”’ he said. :

She turned aside, breaking the spell. In some strange
way, she felt he was getting power over her.

** Well, I can’t tell you already,”’ she said.

She went to the mirror to take out the hairpins from her
hair. She stood before the mirror every night for some
minutes, brushing her fine dark hair. It was part of the
inevitable ritual of her life.

He followed her, and stood behind her. She was busy
with bent head, taking out-the pins and shaking her warm
hair loose. When she looked up, she saw him in the glass,
standing behind her, watching unconsciously, not con-
sciously seeing her, and yet watching, with fine-pupilled
eyes that seemed to smile, and which were not really
smiling.

She started. It took all her courage for her to continue
brushing her hair, as usual, for her to pretend she was at
her ease. She was far, far from being at her ease with him.
She beat her brains wildly for something to say to him.

** What are your plans for to-morrow ?’’ she asked non-
chalantly, whilst her heart was beating so furiously, her
eyes were so bright with strange nervousness, she felt he
could not but observe. But she knew also that he was com-
pletely blind, blind as a wolf looking at her. It was a
strange battle between her ordinary consciousness and his
uncanny, black-art consciousness.

** IT don’t know,’’ he replied, ** what would you like to
do ?”?

He spoke emptily, his mind was sunk away.

** Oh,”’ she said, with easy protestation, ** I’m ready for
anything—anything will be fine for me, I’m sure.”’

And to herself she was saying : *‘ God, why am I so ner-
vous—why are you so nervous, you fool. If he sees it I’m
done for for ever—you know you’re done for for ever, if he
sees the absurd state you’re in.”’

“AE rN aN ah hay den sik If Fale Spahr a el Rack Ricoh i
CERN eS ERY EDN ek Or eS a
Lats. 2 rr ee ts

488 §. WOMEN IN LOVE

And she smiled to herself as if it were all child’s play. —
Meanwhile her heart was plunging, she was almost fainting.
She could see him, in the mirror, as he stood there behind
her, tall and over-arching—blond and terribly frightening.
She glanced at his reflection with furtive eyes, willing to
give anything to save him from knowing she could see him.
He did not know she could see his reflection. He was look-
ing unconsciously, glisteningly down at her head, from
which the hair fell loose, as she brushed it with wild, ner-
vous hand. She held her head aside and brushed and
brushed her hair madly. For her life, she could not turn
round and face him. For her life, she could not. And the
knowledge made her almost sink to the ground in a faint,
helpless, spent. She was aware of his frightening, impend-
ing figure standing close behind her, she was aware of his
hard, strong, unyielding chest, close upon her back. And
she felt she could not bear it any. more, in a few minutes
she would fall down at his feet, grovelling at his feet, and
letting him destroy her.

The thought pricked up all her sharp intelligence and pre-
sence of mind. She dared not turn round to him—and
there he stood motionless, unbroken. Summoning all her |
strength, she said, in a full, resonant, nonchalant voice,
that was forced out with all her remaining self-control :

*¢ Oh, would you mind looking in that bag behind there
and giving me my ——— ”’ |

Here her power fell inert. ‘‘ My what—my what—? ”
she screamed in silence to herself.

But he had started round, surprised and startled that she
should ask him to look in her bag, which she always kept so
very private to herself. She turned now, her face white,
her dark eyes blazing with uncanny, overwrought excite-
ment. She saw him stooping to the bag, undoing th
loosely buckled strap, unattentive. |

** Your what ?’’ he asked.

** Oh, a little enamel box—yellow—with a design of a
cormorant plucking her breast— ”

She went towards him, stooping her beautiful, bare arm,
and deftly turned some of her things, disclosing the box,
which was exquisitely painted.

‘© That is it, see,’’ she said, taking it from under his eyes.

And he was baffled now. He was left to fasten up the
bag, whilst she swiftly did up her hair for the night, and

By AT ae
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if PEA My ;

CONTINENTAL 439

sat down to unfasten her shoes. She would not turn he:
back to him any more.

He was baffled, frustrated, but unconscious. She had the
whip hand over him now. She knew he had not realised
her terrible panic. Her heart was beating heavily still.
Fool, fool that she was, to get into such a state! How she
thanked God for Gerald’s obtuse blindness. Thank God
he could see nothing.

She sat slowly unlacing her shoes, and he too commenced
to undress. Thank God that crisis was over. She felt
almost fond of him now, almost in love with him.

** Ah, Gerald,’’ she laughed, caressively, teasingly, ** Ah,
what a fine game you played with the Professor’s daughter
—didn’t you now ?”’

** What game ?”’ he asked, looking round.

** Isn’t she in love with you—oh dear, isn’t she in love
with you! ”’ said Gudrun, in her gayest, most attractive
mood.

** I shouldn’t think so,”’’ he said.

** Shouldn’t think so! ’? she teased. ‘* Why the poor girl
is lying at this moment overwhelmed, dying with love for
you. She thinks you’re wonderful—oh marvellous, beyond
what man has ever been. Really, isn’t it funny ?’’

** Why funny, what is funny ?’’ he asked.

** Why to see you working it on her,’’ she said, with a
half reproach that confused the male conceit in him.
** Really Gerald, the poor girl br

** I did nothing to her,’’ he said.

** Oh, it was too shameful, the way you simply swept her
off her feet.’’

** That was Schuhplatteln,’’ he replied, with a bright grin.

** Ha—ha—ha! ” laughed Gudrun.

Her mockery quivered through his muscles with curious

re-echoes. When he slept he seemed to crouch down in the
bed, lapped up in his own strength, that yet was hollow.
- And Gudrun slept strongly, a victorious sleep. Suddenly,
she was almost fiercely awake. The small timber room
glowed with the dawn, that came upwards from the low
window. She could see down the valley when she lifted her
head: the snow with a pinkish, half-revealed magic, the
fringe of pine-trees at the bottom of the slope. And one
tiny figure moved over the vaguely-illuminated space.

She glanced at his watch; it was seven o’clock. He was

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440 WOMENINLOVE |

still completely asleep. And she was so hard awake, it was _
almost frightening—a hard, metallic wakefulness. She lay —
looking at him. , |

He slept in the subjection of his own health and defeat.
She was overcome by a sincere regard for him. Till now,
she was afraid before him. She lay and thought about him,

\ what he was, what he represented in the world. A fine, in-

dependent will, he had. She thought of the revolution he
had worked in the mines, in so short a time. She knew
that, if he were confronted with any problem, any hard
actual difficulty, he would overcome it. If he laid hold of
any idea, he would carry it through. He had the faculty
of making order out of confusion. Only let him grip hold
of a situation, and he would bring to pass an inevitable
conclusion.

For a few moments she was borne away on the wild wings
of ambition. Gerald, with his force of will and his power
for comprehending the actual world, should be set to solve
the problems of the day, the problem of industrialism in the
modern world. She knew he would, in the course of time,
effect the changes he desired, he could re-organise the indus-
trial system. She knew he could do it. As an instrument,
in these things, he was marvellous, she had never seen any
man with his potentiality. He was unaware of it, but she
knew. |

He only needed to be hitched on, he needed that his hand
should be set to the task, because he was so unconscious.
And this she could do. She would marry him, he would go
into Parliament in the Conservative interest, he would
clear up the great muddle of labour and industry. He was
so superbly fearless, masterful, he knew that every problem
could be worked out, in life as in geometry. And he would
care neither about himself nor about anything but the pure
working out of the problem. He was very pure, really.

Her heart beat fast, she flew away on wings of elation,
imagining a future. He would be a Napoleon of peace, or
a, Bismarck—and she the woman behind him. She had read
Bismarck’s letters, and had been deeply moved by them.
And Gerald would be freer, more dauntless than Bismarck.

But even as she lay in fictitious transport, bathed in the
strange, false sunshine of hope in life, something seemed to
snap in her, and a terrible cynicism began to gain upon her,
blowing in like a wind. Everything turned to irony with

CONTINENTAL 441

her : the last flavour of everything was ironical. When she
felt her pang of undeniable reality, this was when she knew
the hard irony of hopes and ideas.

She lay and looked at him, as he slept. He was eres
beautiful, he was a perfect instrument. To her mind, he
was a pure, inhuman, almost superhuman instrument. His
instrumentality appealed so strongly to her, she wished she
were God, to use him as a tool.

And at the same instant, came the ironical question :

** What for??? She thought of the collier’s wives, with
their linoleum and their lace curtains and their little girls
in high-laced boots. She thought of the wives and daugh-
ters of the pit-managers, their tennis-parties, and their ter-
rible struggles to be superior each to the other, in the social
scale. There was Shortlands with its meaningless distinc-
tion, the meaningless crowd of the Criches. There was
London, the House of Commons, the extant social world.
My God!
_ Young as she was, Gudrun had touched the whole pulse
of social England. She had no ideas of rising in the world.
She knew, with the perfect cynicism of cruel youth, that to
rise in the world meant to have one outside show instead of
another, the advance was like having a spurious half-crown
instead of a spurious penny. The whole coinage of valua-
tion was spurious. Yet of course, her cynicism knew well
enough that, in a world where spurious coin was current, a
bad sovereign was better than a bad farthing. But rich
and poor, she despised both alike.

Already she mocked at herself for her dreams. They
could be fulfilled easily enough. But she recognised too
well, in her spirit, the mockery of her own impulses. What
did she care, that Gerald had created a richly-paying in-
dustry out of an old worn-out concern? What did she
care? The worn-out concern and the rapid, splendidly
organised industry, they were bad money. Yet of course,
she cared a great deal, outwardly—and outwardly was all
that mattered, for inwardly was a bad joke.

Everything was intrinsically a piece of irony to her. She
leaned over Gerald and said in her heart, with compassion :

** Oh, my dear, my dear, the game isn’t worth even you.
You are a fine thing really—why should you be used on
such a poor show! ”*

Her heart was breaking with pity and grief for him. And

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442 WOMEN IN LOVE

at the same moment, a grimace came over her mouth, of —
mocking irony at her own unspoken tirade. Ah, what a
farce it was! She thought of Parnell and Katherine
O’Shea. Parnell! After all, who can take the nationalisa-
tion of Ireland seriously? Who can take political Ireland
really seriously, whatever it does? And who can take
political England seriously? Who can? Who can care a
straw, really, how the old patched-up Constitution is tin-
kered at any more? Who cares a button for our national
ideas, any more than for our national bowler hat? Aha, it
is all old hat, it is all old bowler hat !

That’s all it is, Gerald, my young hero. At any rate
we’ll spare ourselves the nausea of stirring the old broth any
more. You be beautiful, my Gerald, and reckless. There
are perfect moments. Wake up, Gerald, wake up, convince
me of the perfect moments. Oh, convince me, I need it.

He opened his eyes, and looked at her. She greeted him
with a mocking, enigmatic smile in which was a poignant
gaiety. Over his face went the reflection of the smile, he
smiled, too, purely unconsciously.

That filled her with extraordinary delight, to see the smile
cross his face, reflected from her face. She remembered
that was how a baby smiled. It filled her with extra-
ordinary radiant delight.

** You’ve done it,’’ she said.

** What ?’’ he asked, dazed.

** Convinced me.”’

And she bent down, kissing him passionately, passion-
ately, so that he was bewildered. He did not ask her of
what he had convinced her, though he meant to. He was
glad she was kissing him. She seemed to be feeling for his
very heart to touch the quick of him. And he wanted her
to touch the quick of his being, he wanted that most of all.

Outside, somebody was singing, in a manly, reckless
handsome voice :

‘© Mach mir auf, mach mir auf, du Stolze,
Mach mir ein Feuer von Holze.
Vom Regen bin ich nass
Vom Regen bin ich nass— ”’

Gudrun knew that that song would sound through her
eternity, sung in a manly, reckless, mocking voice. It
marked one of her supreme moments, the supreme pangs of

CONTINENTAL 448

her nervous gratification. There it was, fixed in eternity
for her. Cade

The day came fine and bluish. There was a light wind
blowing among the mountain tops, keen as a rapier where
it touched, carrying with it a fine dust of snow-powder.
Gerald went out with the fine, blind face of a man who is
in his state of fulfilment. Gudrun and he were in perfect
static unity this morning, but unseeing and unwitting.
They went out with a toboggan, leaving Ursula and Birkin
to follow.

Gudrun was all scarlet and royal blue—a scarlet jersey
and cap, and a royal blue skirt and stockings. She
went gaily over the white snow, with Gerald beside
her, in white and grey, pulling the little toboggan.
They grew small in the distance of snow, climbing
the steep slope.

For Gudrun herself, she seemed to pass altogether into
the whiteness of the snow, she became a pure, thoughtless
crystal. When she reached the top of the slope, in the
wind, she looked round, and saw peak beyond peak of rock
and snow, bluish, transcendent in heaven. And it seemed
to her like a garden, with the peaks for pure flowers, and
her heart gathering them. She had no separate conscious-
ness for Gerald.

She held on to him as they went sheering down over the
keen slope. She felt as if her senses were being whetted on
some fine grindstone, that was keen as flame. The snow
sprinted on either side, like sparks from a blade that is
being sharpened, the whiteness round about ran _ swifter,
swifter, in pure flame the white slope flew against her, and
she fused like one molten, dancing globule, rushed through
a white intensity. Then there was a great swerve at the
bottom, when they swung as it were in a fall to earth, in the
diminishing motion.

They came to rest. But when she rose to her feet, she
could not stand. She gave a strange cry, turned and clung
to him, sinking her face on his breast, fainting in him.
Utter oblivion came over her, as she lay for a few moments
abandoned against him.

** What is it?’? he was saying. ‘“‘ Was it too much for
you?’

But she heard nothing.

When she came to, she stood up and looked round,

4d WOMEN IN LOVE

-bvecaiaia Her face was white, her eyes brilliant and
arge. '
** What is it?’ he repeated. ‘* Did it upset you ?”?

She looked at him with her brilliant eyes that seemed to
have undergone some transfiguration, and she laughed, with
a terrible merriment.

** No,”’ she cried, with triumphant joy. ‘* It was the
complete moment of my life.”

And she looked at him with her dazzling, overweening
laughter, like one possessed. A fine blade seemed to enter
his heart, but he did not care, or take any notice.

But.they climbed up the slope again, and they flew down
through the white flame again, splendidly, splendidly.
Gudrun was laughing and flashing, powdered with snow-
erystals, Gerald worked perfectly. He felt he could guide
the toboggan to a hair-breadth, almost he could make it
pierce into the air and right into the very heart of the sky.
It seemed to him the flying sledge was but his strength
spread out, he had but to move his arms, the motion was
his own. They explored the great slopes, to find another
slide. He felt there must be something better than they -
had known. And he found what he desired, a perfect long,
fierce sweep, sheering past the foot of a rock and into the
trees at the base. It was dangerous, he knew. But then
he knew also he would direct the sledge between his fingers.

The first days passed in an ecstasy of physical motion,
sleighing, ski-ing, skating, moving in an intensity of speed
and white light that surpassed life itself, and carried the
souls of the human beings beyond into an inhuman abstrac-
tion of velocity and weight and eternal, frozen snow.

Gerald’s eyes became hard and strange, and as he went by
on his skis he was more like some powerful, fateful sigh
than a man, his muscles elastic in a perfect, soaring trajec-
tory, his body projected in pure flight, mindless, soulless,
whirling along one perfect line of force.

Luckily there came a day of snow, when they must all
stay indoors : otherwise Birkin said, they would all lose their
faculties, and begin to utter themselves in cries and shrieks,
like some strange, unknown species of snow-creatures.

It happened in the afternoon that Ursula sat in the Re-
unionsaal talking:to Loerke. The latter had seemed un-
happy lately. He was lively and full of mischievous
humour, as usual.

CONTINENTAL oe

But Ursula had thought he was sulky. about something.
His partner, too, the big, fair, good-looking youth, was ill
at ease, going about as if he belonged to nowhere, and was
kept in some sort of subjection, against which he was re-
belling.

Loerke had hardly talked to Gudrun. His associate, on
the other hand, had paid her constantly a soft, over-defer-
ential attention. Gudrun wanted to talk to Loerke. He
was a sculptor, and she wanted to hear his view of his art.
And his figure attracted her. There was the look of a little
wastrel about him, that intrigued her, and an old man’s
look, that interested her, and then, beside this, an uncanny
singleness, a quality of being by himself, not in contact
with anybody else, that marked out an artist to her. He
was a chatterer, a magpie, a maker of mischievous word-

_ jokes, that were sometimes very clever, but which often
were not. And she could see in his brown, gnome’s eyes,
the black look of inorganic misery, which lay behind all his
small buffoonery.

His figure interested her—the figure of a boy, almost a
street arab. He made no attempt to conceal it. He always
wore a simple loden suit, with knee breeches. His legs were
thin, and he made no attempt to disguise the fact : which
was of itself remarkable, in a German. And he never in-
gratiated himself anywhere, not in the slightest, but kept
to himself, for all his apparent playfulness.

Leitner, his companion, was a great sportsman, very
handsome with his big limbs and his blue eyes. Loerke
would go toboganning or skating, in little snatches, but he
was indifferent. And his fine, thin nostrils, the nostrils of
a pure-bred street arab, would quiver with contempt at
Leitner’s splothering gymnastic displays. It was evident
that the two men who had travelled and lived together,
sharing the same bedroom, had now reached the stage of
loathing. Leitner hated Loerke with an injured, writhing,
impotent hatred, and Loerke treated Leitner with a fine-
quivering contempt and sarcasm. Soon the two would have
to go apart.

Already they were rarely together. Leitner ran attach-
ing himself to somebody or other, always deferring, Loerke
was a good deal alone. Out of doors he wore a Westphalian
cap, a close brown-velvet head with big brown velvet flaps
down over his ears, so that he looked like a lop-eared rabbit,

446 WOMEN IN LOVE

ora troll. His face was brown-red, with a dry, bright skin,

that seemed to crinkle with his mobile expressions. His
eyes were arresting—brown, full, like a rabbit’s, or like a
troll’s, or like the eyes of a lost being, having a strange,
dumb, depraved look of knowledge, and a quick spark of
uncanny fire. Whenever Gudrun had tried to-talk to him
he had shied away unresponsive, looking at her with his
watchful dark eyes, but entering into no relation with her.
He had made her feel that her slow French and her slower
German, were hateful to him. As for his own inadequate
English, he was much too awkward to try it at all. But
he understood a good deal of what was said, nevertheless.
And Gudrun, piqued, left him alone. } |

This afternoon, however, she came into the lounge as he
was talking to Ursula. His fine, black hair somehow re-
minded her of a bat, thin as it was on his full, sensitive-look-
ing head, and worn away at the temples. He sat hunched
up, as if his spirit were bat-like. And Gudrun could see he
was making some slow confidence to Ursula, unwilling, a
slow, grudging, scanty self-revelation. She went and sat by
her sister.

He looked at her, then looked away again, as if he took no
notice of her. But as a matter of fact, she interested him
deeply.

** Isn’t it interesting, Prune,’’ said Ursula, turning to her
sister, ‘‘ Herr Loerke is doing a great frieze for a factory in
Cologne, for the outside, the street.”’

She looked at him, at his thin, brown, nervous hands,
that were prehensile, and somehow like talons, like
* griffes,” inhuman.

** What in?’ she asked.

** Aus was?’’ repeated Ursula.

** Granit,’’ he replied.

It had become immediately a laconic series of question
and answer between fellow craftsmen.

** What is the relief ?’? asked Gudrun.

** Alto relievo.”’

** And at what height ?”

It was very interesting to Gudrun to think of his making
the great granite frieze for a great granite factory in
Cologne. She got from him some notion of the design. It
was a representation of a fair, with peasants and artizans in
an orgy of enjoyment, drunk and absurd in their modern

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CONTINENTAL Ant

dress, whirling ridiculously in roundabouts, gaping at shows,
kissing and staggering and rolling in knots, swinging in
swing-boats, and firing down shooting galleries, a frenzy of
chaotic motion.

There was a swift discussion of teehnicalities. | Gudrun
was very much impressed.

** But how wonderful, to have such a factory! ”’ cried
Ursula. ‘‘ Is the whole building fine ?’’

** Oh yes,”’ he replied. ‘* The frieze is part of the whole
architecture. Yes, it is a colossal thing.”’

Then he seemed to stiffen, shrugged his shoulders, and
went on :

** Sculpture and architecture must go together. The day
for irrelevant statues, as for wall pictures, is over. As a
matter of fact sculpture is always part of an architectural
conception. And since churches are all museum stuff, since
industry is our business, now, then let us make our
places of industry our art—our factory-area our Parthenon,
ecco! *’

Ursula pondered.

** I suppose,’’ she said, ‘** there is no need for our great
works to be so hideous.”’

Instantly he broke into motion.

*¢ There you are! ’’ he cried, *‘ there you are! There
is not only no need for our places of work to be ugly, but
their ugliness ruins the work, in the end. Men will not go
on submitting to such intolerable ugliness. In the end it
will hurt too much,’and they will wither because of it. And
this will wither the work as well. They will think the work
itself is ugly : the machines, the very act of labour. Where-
as the machinery and the acts of labour are extremely, mad-
deningly beautiful. But this will be the end of our civilisa-
tion, when people will not work because work has become
so intolerable to their senses, it nauseates them too much,
they would rather starve. Then we shall see the hammer
used only for smashing, then we shall see it. Yet here we
are—we have the opportunity to make beautiful factories,
beautiful machine-houses—we have the opportunity— 7”

Gudrun could only partly understand. She could have
cried with vexation.

** What does he say?’’ she asked Ursula. And Ursula
translated, stammering and brief. Loerke watched Gud-
run’s face, to see her judgment.

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448 WOMEN IN LOVE

** And do you think then,”? said Gudrun, ‘* that art
should serve industry ?”’ |

** Art should interpret industry, as art once interpreted
religion,’’ he said. .

** But does your fair interpret industry ?”’ she asked him. ~

** Certainly. What is man doing, when he is at a fair like -
this? He is fulfilling the counterpart of labour—the
machine works him, instead of he the machine. He enjoys
the mechanical motion, in his own body.”’ :

** But is there nothing but work—mechanical work ?”’ said
Gudrun.

** Nothing but work ! *? he repeated, leaning forward, his
eyes two darknesses, with needle-points of light. ‘* No, it is
nothing but this, serving a machine, or enjoying the motion
of a machine—motion, that is all. You have never worked
for hunger, or you would know what god governs us.”

Gudrun quivered and flushed. For some reason she was
almost in tears.

** No, I have not worked for hunger,” she replied, ** but
I have worked ! ”’

‘** Travaillé—lavorato ?”? he asked. ‘* E che lavoro—che
lavoro? Quel ‘travail est-ce que vous avez fait ?’’ |

He broke into a mixture of Italian and French, instine-
tively using a foreign language when he spoke to her.

** You have never worked as the world works,’’ he said to
_ her, with sarcasm.

** Yes,’’ she said. ‘‘ I have. And I do—lI work now for
my daily bread.”’ :

He paused, looked at her steadily, then dropped the sub-
ject entirely. She seemed to him to be trifling.

‘* But have you ever worked as the world works?”
Ursula asked him.

He looked at her untrustful.

** Yes,’ he replied, with a surly bark. ‘“‘ I have known
what it was to lie in bed for three days, because I had
nothing to eat.”’ |

Gudrun was looking at him with large, grave eyes, that
secmed to draw the confession from him as the marrow from
his bones. All his nature held him back from confessing.
And yet her large, grave eyes upon him seemed to open
some valve in his veins, and involuntarily he was telling.

‘* My father was a man who did not like work, and we had
no mother. We lived in Austria, Polish Austria. How did

CONTINENTAL | 449

we live? Ha!—somehow! Mostly in a room with three
other families—one set in each corner—and the W.C. in the
middle of the room—a pan with a plank on it—ha!- I had
two brothers and a sister—and there might be a woman
with my father. He was a free being, in his way—would
fight with any man in the town—a garrison town—and was
a little man too. But he wouldn’t work for anybody—set
his heart against it, and wouldn’t.”’

** And how did you live then ?”? asked Ursula.

He looked at her—then, suddenly, at Gudrun.

** Do you understand ?’’ he asked.

** Enough,”’ she replied.

Their eyes met for a moment. Then he looked away.
He would say no more.

** And how did you become a sculptor?’’ asked Ursula.

**How did I become a _ sculptor—’ he paused.
** Dunque—- ”? he resumed, in a changed manner, and be-
ginning to speak French—*‘ I became old enough—I used tu
steal from the market-place. Later I went to work—im-
printed the stamp on clay bottles, before they were baked.
It was an earthenware-bottle factory. There I began mak-
ing models. One day, I had had enough. I lay in the sun .
and did not go to work. Then I walked to Munich—then
I walked to Italy—begging, begging everything.

** The Italians were very good to me—they were
good and honourable to me. From Bozen to Rome,
almost every night I had a meal and a bed, perhaps of
straw, with some peasant. I love the Italian people, with
all my heart.

‘* Dungue, adesso—maintenant—I earn a_ thousand
pounds in a year, or I earn two thousand— ”’

He looked down at the ground, his voice tailing off into
silence.

Gudrun looked at his fine, thin, shiny skin, reddish-brown
from the sun, drawn tight over his full temples; and at his
thin hair—, and at the thick, coarse, brush-like moustache,
cut short about his mobile, rather shapeless mouth.

** How old are you?’ she asked.

He looked up at her with his full, elfin eyes startled.

** Wie alt?’? he repeated. And he hesitated. It was
evidently one of his reticencies.

** How old are you?”’ he replied, without answering.

** IT am twenty-six,’’ she answered.

2F

450 WOMEN IN LOVE

** Twenty-six,”’ he repeated, looking into her eyes. He
paused. Then he said:

*¢ Und Ihr Herr Gemahl, wie alt is er???

** Who ?”’ asked Gudrun.

** Your husband,” said Ursula, with a certain irony. |

** I haven’t got a husband,” said Gudrun in English. In
German she answered,

** He is thirty-one.”’ ©

But Loerke was watching closely, with his uncanny, full,
‘suspicious eyes. Something in Gudrun seemed to accord
with him. He was really like one of the “ little people ”
who have no soul, who has found his mate in a human
being. But he suffered in his discovery. She too was fas-
cinated by him, fascinated, as if some strange creature, a
rabbit or a bat, or a brown seal, had begun to talk to her.
But also, she knew what he was unconscious of, his tremen-
_ dous power of understanding, of apprehending her living
motion. He did not know his own power. He did not
know how, with his full, submerged, watchful eyes, he could
look into her and see her, what she was, see her secrets. He
would only want her to be herself—he knew her verily, with
a subconscious, sinister knowledge, devoid of illusions and
hopes.

To Gudrun, there was in Loerke the rock-bottom of all
life. | Everybody else had their illusion, must have their
illusion, their before and after. But he, with a perfect
stoicism, did without any before and after, dispensed with
all illusion. He did not deceive himself in the last issue.
In the last issue he cared about nothing, he was troubled,
about nothing, he made not the slightest attempt to be at
one with anything. He existed a pure, unconnected will,
stoical and momentaneous. There was only his work.

It was curious too, how his poverty, the degradation of
his earlier life, attracted her. ‘There was something in-
sipid and tasteless to her, in the idea of a gentleman, a man
who had gone the usual course through school and univer-
sity. A certain violent sympathy, however, came up in her
for this mud-child. He seemed to be the very stuff of the
under-world of life. There was no going beyond him.

Ursula too was attracted by Loerke. In both sisters
he commanded a certain homage. But there were moments
“when to Ursula he seemed indescribably inferior, false, a
vulgarism. :

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CONTINENTAL 451

‘Both Birkin and Gerald disliked him, Gerald ignoring him
with some contempt, Birkin exasperated.

** What do the women find so impressive in that little
brat ??? Gerald asked.

** God alone knows,”’ replied Birkin, ‘* unless it’s some
sort of appeal he makes to them, which flatters them and
has such a power over them.”’

Gerald looked up in surprise.

** Does he make an appeal to them ?”’ he asked.

** Oh yes,’’ replied Birkin. ‘* He is the perfectly sub-
jected being, existing almost like a criminal: And the
women rush towards that, like a current of air towards a
vacuum.”’

** Funny they should rush to that,’’ said Gerald.

** Makes one mad, too,”’ said Birkin. ‘* But he has the
fascination of pity and repulsion for them, a little obscene
monster of the darkness that he is.”’

Gerald stood still, suspended in thought.

** What do women want, at the bottom ?’’ he asked.

Birkin shrugged his shoulders.

** God knows,”’ he said. ‘* Some satisfaction in basic re-
pulsion, it seems to me. They seem to creep down some
ghastly tunne! of darkness, and will never be satisfied till
they’ve come to the end.”’

Gerald looked out into the mist of fine snow that was
blowing by. Everywhere was blind to-day, horribly
blind.

** And what is the end ?”’ he asked.

Birkin shook his head.

** I’ve not got there yet, so I don’t know. Ask Loerke,
he’s pretty near. He is a good many stages further than
either you or I can go.”’

** Yes, but stages further in what?’ cried Gerald, irri- ©
tated. :

Birkin sighed, and gathered his brows into a knot of
anger.

** Stages further in social hatred,’’ he said. ‘* He lives
like a rat, in the river of corruption, just where it falls over
into the bottomless pit. He’s further on than we are. He
hates the ideal more acutely. He hates the ideal utterly,
yet it still dominates him. I expect he is a Jew—or part
Jewish.”’

‘* Probably,’ said Gerald.

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452 WOMEN IN LOVE

** He is a gnawing little negation, gnawing at the roots
of iife.’’

** But why does anybody care about him ?”’ cried Gerald.

** Because they hate the ideal also, in their souls. They
want to explore the sewers, and he’s the wizard rat that
swims ahead.”’

Still Gerald stood and stared at the blind haze of snow
outside.

** I don’t understand your terms, really,’’ he said, in a
flat, doomed voice. ‘* But it sounds a rum sort of desire.”

** I suppose we want the same,”’ said Birkin. ‘* Only
we want to take a quick jump downwards, in a sort of
ecstasy—and he ebbs with the stream, the sewer stream.”’

Meanwhile Gudrun and Ursula waited for the next oppor-
tunity to talk to Loerke. It was no use beginning when
the men were there. Then they could get into no touch
with the isolated little sculptor. He had to be alone with
them. And he preferred Ursula to be there, as a sort of
transmitter to Gudrun.

**Do you do nothing but architectural sculpture ?’’
Gudrun asked him one evening.

** Not now,” he replied. ‘‘ I have done all sorts—except
portraits—I never did portraits. But other things— ”

** What kind of things ??? asked Gudrun.

He paused a moment, then rose, and went out of the
room. He returned almost immediately with a little roll
of paper, which he handed to her. She unrolled it. It was
a photogravure reproduction of a statuette, signed F.
Loerke.

** That is quite an early thing—not mechanical,”’ he said,
** more popular.”’

The statuette was of a naked girl, small, finely made, sit-
ting on a great naked horse. The girl was young and
tender, a mere bud. She was sitting sideways on the horse,
her face in her hands, as if in shame and grief, in a little
abandon. Her hair, which was short and must be flaxen,
fell forward, divided, half covering her hands.

Her limbs were young and tender. Her legs, scarcely
formed yet, the legs of a maiden just passing towards cruel
womanhood, dangled childishly over the side of the power-
ful horse, pathetically, the small feet folded one over the
other, as if to hide. But there was no hiding. There she
was exposed naked on the naked flank of the horse.

CONTINENTAL 453

The horse stood stock still, stretched in a kind of start.
It was a massive, magnificent stallion, rigid with pent-up
power. Its neck was arched and terrible, like a sickle, its
flanks were pressed back, rigid with power.

Gudrun went pale, and a darkness came over her eyes,
like shame, she looked up with a certain supplication, almost
slave-like. He glanced at her, and jerked his head a
little.

** How big is it?’? she asked, in a toneless voice, persist-
ing in appearing casual and unaffected.

** How big ?”’ he replied, glancing again at her. ‘‘ With-
out pedestal—so high— fe he measured with his hand—

* with pedestal, so— ’

He looked at her steadily. There was a little brusque,
turgid contempt for her in his swift gesture, and she seemed
to cringe a little.

‘‘ And what is.it done in?” she asked, throwing back
her head and looking at him with affected ‘coldness.

He still gazed at her steadily, and his dominance was not
shaken.

** Bronze—green bronze.”’

** Green bronze! ’? repeated Gudrun, coldly accepting his
challenge. She was thinking of the slender, immature, ten-
der limbs of the girl, smooth and cold in green bronze.

** Yes, beautiful,’? she murmured, looking up at him with
a certain dark homage.

He closed his eyes and looked aside, triumphant.

°° Why,’’ said Ursula, ‘‘ did you make the horse sv
stiff? It is as stiff as a block.’’

** Stiff??? he repeated, in arms at once.

** Yes. Look how stock and stupid and brutal it is.
Horses are sensitive, quite delicate and sensitive, really.’’

He raised his shoulders, spread his hands in a shrug of
slow indifference, as much as to inform her she was an
amateur and an impertinent nobody.

** Wissen Sie,’’ he said, with an insulting patience and
condescension in his voice, *‘ that horse is a certain form,
part of a whole form. It is part of a work of art, a piece of
form. It is not a picture of a friendly horse to. which you
give a lump of sugar, do you see—it is part of a work of
art, it has no relation to anything outside that work of art.”

Ursula, angry at being treated quite so insultingly de haut
en bas, from the height of esoteric art to the depth of

454

general exoteric amateurism, replied, hotly, flushing and —
lifting her face. . ,

** But it is a picture of a horse, nevertheless.”’

He lifted his shoulders in another shrug.

** As you like—it is not a picture of a cow, certainly.”
Here Gudrun broke in, flushed and brilliant, anxious to
avoid any more of this, any more of Ursula’s foolish per- —
sistence in giving herself away.
** What do you mean by ‘ it is a picture of a horse?? ”
she cried at her sister. ‘* What do you mean by a horse?
You mean an idea you have in your head, and which you
want to see represented. There is another idea altogether,
quite another idea. Call it a horse if you like, or say it is
not a horse. I have just as much right to say that your
horse isn’t a horse, that it is a falsity of your own make-

up.”’

Ursula wavered, baffled. Then her words came.

** But why does he have this idea of a horse ?”’ she said.
** I know it is his idea. I know it is a picture of himself, —
really— ”’

Loerke snorted with rage.

**A picture of myself!’ he repeated, in derision.
** Wissen sie, gnadige Frau, that is a Kunstwerk, a work of
art. It is a work of art, it is a picture of nothing, of
absolutely nothing. It has nothing to do with anything
but itself, it has no relation with the everyday world of this —
and other, there is no connection between them, absolutely
none, they are two different and distinct planes of existence,
and to translate one into the other is worse than foolish, it
is a darkening of all counsel, a making confusion every-
where. Do you see, you must not confuse the relative work
of action, with the absolute world of art. That you must
not do.’’

** That is quite true,’’ cried Gudrun, let loose in a sort of
rhapsody. ‘* The two things are quite and permanently
apart, they have nothing to do with one another. I and
my art, they have nothing to do with each other. My art
stands in another world, I am in this world.”’ |

Her face was flushed and transfigured. . Loerke who was
sitting with his head ducked, like some creature at
bay, looked up at her, swiftly, almost furtively, and
murmured,

**¢ Ja—-so ist es, so ist es.”’

>
.
MI 4
‘
2 he)
- — iF
Pew re w si

CONTINENTAL 455

Ursula was silent after this outburst. She was furious.
She wanted to poke a hole into them both.

* ** Tt isn’t a word of it true, of all this harangue you have
made me,’ she replied flatly. ‘‘ The horse is a picture of
your own stock, stupid brutality, and the girl was a girl
you loved and tortured and then ignored.”’

He looked up at her with a small smile of contempt in his
eyes. He would not trouble to answer this last charge.

Gudrun too was silent in exasperated contempt. Ursula
was such an insufferable outsider, rushing in where angels
would fear to tread. But then—fools must be suffered, if
not gladly.

But Ursula was persistent too.

** As for your world of art and your world of reality,”
she replied, ‘‘ you have to separate the two, because you
can’t bear to know what you are. You can’t bear to realise
what a stock, stiff, hide-bound brutality you are really, so
you say ‘ it’s the world of art.” The world of art is only the
truth about the real world, that’s all—but you are too far
gone to see it.”’

She was white and trembling, intent. Gudrun and
Loerke.sat in stiff dislike of her. Gerald too, who had come
up in the beginning of the speech, stood looking at her in
complete disapproval and opposition. He felt she was un-
dignified, she put a sort of vulgarity over the esotericism
which gave man his last distinction. He joined his forces
with the other two. They all three wanted her to go away.
But she sat on in silence, her soul weeping, throbbing vio-
lently, her fingers twisting her handkerchief.

The others maintained a dead silence, letting the display
of Ursula’s obtrusiveness pass by. Then Gudrun asked, in
a voice that was quite cool and casual, as if resuming a
casual conversation :

** Was the girl a model ?”’ .
** Nein, sie war kein Modell. Sie war eine kleine
Malschiilerin.”’

— ** An art-student ! ’? replied Gudrun.

And how the situation revealed itself to her! She saw
the girl art-student, unformed and of pernicious recklessness,
too young, her straight flaxen hair cut short, hanging just
into her neck, curving inwards slightly, because it was
rather thick; and Loerke, the well-known master-sculptor,
and the girl, probably well-brought-up, and of good family,

8 a GA arte ae Ta TE ES hat Oe A on ae ee
PP DAB AT hae aa yi teae UN Cdl AA Wns Se nin ee a
Ry ur

~

456 WOMEN IN LOVE.

thinking herself so great to be his mistress. Oh how well

she knew the common callousness of it all. Dresden, Paris,
or London, what did it matter? She knew it.

** Where is she now ?’’ Ursula asked.

Loerke raised his shoulders, to convey his complete ignor-
ance and indifference.

‘** That is already six years ago,’ he said; ‘* she will be
twenty-three years old, no more good.”’

Gerald had picked up the picture and was looking at it.
It attracted him also. He saw on the pedestal, that the
piece was called ** Lady Godiva.”’’

** But this isn’t Lady Godiva,’’ he said, smiling good- -

humouredly. ‘* She was the middle-aged wife of some Earl
or other, who covered herself with her long hair.”’

** A la Maud Allan,’? said Gudrun with a mocking
grimace.

‘© Why Maud Allan?’’ he replied. ‘‘Isn’t it sor I
always thought the legend was that.’’

** Yes, Gerald dear, I’m quite sure you’ve got the legend
perfectly.”’

She was laughing at him, with a little, mock-caressive
contempt.

** To be sure, I’d rather see the woman than the hair,”’
he laughed in return.

** Wouldn‘t you just! ’? mocked Gudrun.

Ursula rose and went away, leaving the three together.

Gudrun took the picture again from Gerald, and sat look-
ing at it closely.

** Of course,’’ she said, turning to tease Loerke now,

you understood your little Malschiilerin.”’

He raised his eyebrows and his shoulders in a complacent
shrug.

i The little girl ?’? asked Gerald, pointing to the figure.

Gudrun was sitting with the picture in her lap. She
looked up at Gerald, full into his eyes, so that he seemed to
be blinded.

‘* Didn’t he understand her! *? she said to Gerald, in a
slightly mocking, humorous playfulness. ‘* You’ve only to
look at the feet—aren’t they darling, so pretty and tender
—oh, they’re really wonderful, they are really— ”’

She lifted her eyes slowly, with a hot, flaming look into
Loerke’s eyes. His soul was filled with her burning recog-
nition, he seemed to grow more uppish and lordly.

a ae

CONTINENTAL 457 .

Gerald looked at the small, sculptured feet. They
were turned together, half covering each other in
pathetic shyness and fear. He looked at + them
a long time, fascinated. Then, in some pain, he
put the picture away from him. He felt full of
barrenness.

** What was her name ?”’ Gudrun asked Loerke.

** Annette von Weck,’’ Loerke replied reminiscent. ‘* Ja,
sie war hiibsch. She was pretty—but she was tiresome.
She was a nuisance,—not for a minute would she keep still
—not until I’d slapped her hard and made her cry—then
she’d sit for five minutes.”’

He was thinking over the work, his work, the all impor-
tant to him.

** Did you really slap her?’’ asked Gudrun, coolly.

He glanced back at her, reading her challenge.

** Yes, I did,’’ he said, nonchalant, ** harder than I have
ever beat anything i in my life. I had to, [had to. It was
the only way I got the work done.”’

Gudrun watched him with large, dark-filled eyes, for some
moments. She seemed to be considering his very soul.
Then she looked down, in silence.

** Why did you have such a young Godiva then ?”’ asked
Gerald. ‘* She is so small, besides, on the horse—not big
enough for it—such a child.”’

A queer spasm went over Loerke’s face.

** Yes,’’ he said. ‘‘ I don’t like them. any bigger, any
older. Then they are beautiful, at sixteen, seventeen,
eighteen—aiter that, they are no use to me.”’

There was a moment’s pause.

** Why not ?’’ asked Gerald.

Loerke shrugged his shoulders.

** IT don’t find them interesting—or beautiful—they are
no good to me, for my work.”’

** Do you mean to say a woman isn’t beautiful after she
is twenty ?”’ asked Gerald.

** For me, no. Before twenty, she is small and fresh and
tender and slight. After that—let her be what she likes,
she has nothing for me. The Venus of Milo is a bourgeoise
—so are they all.’’

** And you don’t care for women at all after twenty ?”’
asked Gerald.

** They are no good to me, they are of no use in my art,”’

Std sr Ras ty Bi cee Se ea es TR OE Ree A hy APE RR ON Ce TR p ae
eR te nate. Ae lie Co Digs YAS Le aes Stet i ages Pld 28 ak BS ou
‘ ; Me = tS ' 2p ay ANes Be REE ee ee ee

458 WOMEN IN LOVE
ie repeated impatiently. ‘* I don’t find them beauti--—
fu , :

** You are an epicure,”’ said Gerald, with a slight sarcas-
tic laugh.

** And what about men ?’’ asked Gudrun suddenly.

** Yes, they are good at all ages,’’ replied Loerke. ‘* A
man should be big and powerful—whether he is old or young
is of no account, so he has the size, something of massive-
ness and—and stupid form.”’

Ursula went out alone into the world of pure, new snow. —
But the dazzling whiteness seemed to beat upon her till it
hurt her, she felt the cold was slowly strangling her soul.
Her head felt dazed and numb.

Suddenly she wanted to go away. It occurred to her,
like a miracle, that she might go away into another world.
She had felt so doomed up here in the eternal snow, as if
there were no beyond.

Now suddenly, as by a miracle she remembered that away
beyond, below her, lay the dark fruitful earth, that towards
the south there were stretches of land dark with orange trees
and cypress, grey with olives, that ilex trees lifted wonder-
ful plumy tufts in shadow against a blue sky. Miracle of
miracles !—this utterly silent, frozen world of the moun-
tain-tops was not universal! One might leave it and have
done with it. One might go away.

She wanted to realise the miracle at once. She wanted
at this instant to have done with the snow-world, the ter-
rible, static ice-built mountain tops. She wanted to see the
dark earth, to smell its earthy fecundity, to see the patient
wintry vegetation, to feel the sunshine touch a response in
the buds. “t

She went back gladly to the house, full of hope. Birkin
was reading, lying in bed.

** Rupert,’* she said, bursting inon him. ‘“ I want to go
away.”

He looked up at her slowly.

** Do you?”’ he replied mildly.

She sat by him and put her arms round his neck. It sur-
prised her that he was so little surprised.

** Don’t you?”’ she asked troubled.

**T hadn’t thought about it,’’ he said. ‘* But I’m sure
I do.”’

She sat up, suddenly erect,

me
Yay
io.

CONTINENTAL 459
** 7 hate it,’? she said. ‘* I hate the snow, and the un-
naturalness of it, the unnatural light it throws on every-
body, the ghastly glamour, the unnatural feelings it makes
everybody have.’’

He lay still and laughed, meditating.

** Well,”? he said, *‘ we can go away—we can go to-
morrow. ‘We’ll go to-morrow to Verona, and find Romeo
and Juliet, and sit in the amphitheatre—shall we ?’’

Suddenly she hid her face against his shoulder with per-
plexity and shyness. He lay so untrammelled.

** Yes,”’ she said softly, filled with relief. She felt her
soul had new wings, now he was so uncaring. ‘I shall
love to be Romeo and Juliet,’’ she said. ‘* My love! ”

** Though a fearfully cold wind blows in Verona,’’ he
said, ** from out of the Alps. We shall have the smell of
the snow in our noses.”’

She sat up and looked at him.

** Are you glad to go?” she asked, troubled.

His eyes were inscrutable and laughing. She hid her face
against his neck, clinging close to him, pleading :

** Don’t laugh at me—don’t laugh at me.’’

** Why how’s that ?’’ he laughed, putting his arms round
her.

** Because I don’t want to be laughed at,’’ she whispered.

He laughed more, as he kissed her delicate, finely per-
fumed hair. ;

** Do you love me ?’’ she whispered, in wild seriousness.

** Yes,”’ he answered, laughing.

Suddenly she lifted her niouth to be kissed. Her lips
were taut and quivering and strenuous, his were soft, deep
and delicate. He waited a few moments in the kiss. Then
a shade of sadness went over his soul.

** Your mouth is so hard,’’ he said, in faint reproach.

** And yours is so soft and nice,”’ she said gladly.

** But why do you always grip your lips?’ he asked,
regretful.

** Never mind,”’ she said swiftly. ‘‘ It is my way.”’

She knew he loved her; she was sure of him. Yet she
could not let go a certain hold over herself, she could not
bear him to question her. She gave herself up in delight
to being loved by him. She knew that, in spite of his joy
when she abandoned herself, he was a little bit saddened
too. She could give herself up to his activity. But she

Rg Keo aus ee a ee ee | ee ee Oa, Noe ian ak Pole eA AS ee er Ae Pe se ud Ws 1 a ee bed
a Khe: StF Wiehe A a EAM ah a Wak aati Griten TG Pe mm EON Ts eva cal tee A ao ehug CFV yh 3) ee ed VR hain ane 33
Bp Pita ei ao Aaa DI a A UR re EL a Pa a Dro tx.
s) hats ul) Se’ re Lb 2

460 WOMEN IN LOVE

could not be herself, she dared not come forth quite nakedly
to his nakedness, abandoning all adjustment, lapsing in pure
faith with him. She abandoned herself to him, or she took
hold of him and gathered her joy of him. And she enjoyed
him fully. But they were never quite together, at the same
moment, one was always a little left out. Nevertheless she
was glad in hope, glorious and free, full of life and liberty.
And he was still and soft and patient, for the time.

They made their preparations to leave the next day.
First they went to Gudrun’s room, where she and Gerald
were just dressed ready for the evening indoors.

** Prune,”’ said Ursula, *‘ I think we shall go away to-
morrow. I can’t stand the snow any more. It hurts my
skin and my soul.”’

** Does it really hurt your soul, Ursula?’’? asked Gudrun,
in some surprise. ‘* I can believe quite it hurts your skin
—it is terrible. But I thought it was admirable for the
soul.”’ |

** No, not for mine. It just injures it,’’ said Ursula.

** Really ! ’? cried Gudrun.

_ There was a silence in the room. And Ursula and Birkin
could feel that Gudrun and Gerald were relieved by their
oing.

ore You will go south?’’ said Gerald, a little ring of un-
easiness in his voice.

** Yes,’ said Birkin, turning away. There was a queer,
indefinable hostility between the two men, lately. Birkin
was on the whole dim and indifferent, drifting along in a
dim, easy flow, unnoticing and patient, since he came
abroad, whilst Gerald on the other hand, was intense and
gripped into white light, agonistes. The two men revoked
one another.

Gerald and Gudrun were very kind to the two who were
departing, solicitous for their welfare as if they were two
children. Gudrun came to Ursula’s bedroom with three
pairs of the coloured stockings for which she was notorious,
and she threw them on the bed. But these were thick silk
stockings, vermilion, cornflower blue, and grey, bought in
Paris. The grey ones were knitted, seamless and heavy.
Ursula was in raptures. She knew Gudrun must be feeling
very loving, to give away such treasures. 4

‘¢T can’t take them from you, Prune,”’ she cried. ‘* I
can’t possibly: deprive you of them—the jewels.”’

CONTINENTAL. 461

** Aren’t they jewels! ’’ cried Gudrun, eyeing her gifts
with an envious eye. ‘* Aren’t they real lambs! ”

** Yes, you must keep them,’’ said Ursula. .

** I don’t want them, I’ve got three more pairs. I want
you to keep them—I want you to have them. They’re
yours, there— ”’

And with trembling, excited hands she put the coveted

stockings under Ursula’s pillow.
~ ** One gets the greatest joy of all out of really lovely
stockings,’’ said Ursula.

** One does,” replied Gudrun ; ‘* the greatest joy of all.’’

And she sat down in the chair. It was evident she had
come for a last talk. Ursula, not knowing what she wanted,
waited in silence.

** Do you feel, Ursula,’’ Gudrun began, rather sceptically,
** that you are going-away-for-ever, never-to-return, sort of
thing ?”’

** Oh, we shall come back, *? said Ursula. ‘* It isn’t a
question of train-journeys.”’

** Yes, I know. But spiritually, so to speak, you are
going away from us all ?’’

Ursula quivered.

** T don’t know a bit what is going to happen,” she said.
** I only know we are going somewhere.’

Gudrun waited.

** And you are glad ?”’ she sale

Ursula meditated for a moment.

** I believe I am very glad,” she replied.

But Gudrun read the unconscious brightness on her sis-
ter’s face, rather than the uncertain tones of her speech.

** But don’t you think you’ll want the old connection
with the world—tfather and the rest of us, and all that it
means, England and the world of thought—don’t you
think you’ll need that, realiy to make a world ?”’

Ursula was silent, trying to imagine.

** IT think,”’ she said at length, involuntarily, ‘‘ that
Rupert is right—one wants a new space to be in, and one
falls away from the old.”’

Gudrun watched her sister with impassive face and
steady eyes.

** One wants a new space to be in, I quite agree,’’ she
said. ‘* But I think that a new world is a development
from this world, and that to isolate oneself with one other

A TS poem ee eRe) PO ne ee
Uke, Mai a is Om (ER ee

462 WOMEN IN LOVE

person, isn’t to find a new world at all, but only to secure —
oneself in one’s illusions.’’ |

Ursula looked out of the window. In her soul she began
to wrestle, and she was frightened. She was always fright-
ened of words, because she knew that mere word-force
could always make her believe what she did not believe.

** Perhaps,”’ she said, full of mistrust, of herself and
everybody. ‘* But,’? she added, ‘I do think that one
can’t have anything new whilst one cares for the old—do
you know what I mean ?—even fighting the old is belonging
to it. I know, one is tempted to stop with the world, just
to fight it. But then it isn’t worth it.”

Gudrun considered herself.

** Yes,’ she said. ‘* In a way, one is of the world if one
lives in it. But isn’t it really an illusion to think you can
get out of it? After all, a cottage in the Abruzzi, or wher-
ever it may be, isn’t a new world. No, the only thing to |
do with the world, is to see it through.”’

Ursula looked away. She was so frightened of argument.

** But there can be scmething else, can’t there ?’’ she said.
** One can see it through in one’s soul, long enough before
it sees itself through in actuality. And then, when one has
seen one’s soul, one is something else.”

** Can one see it through in one’s soul?’ asked Gudrun.
“‘ If you mean that you can see to the end of what will
happen, I don’t agree. I really can’t agree. And anyhow,
you can’t suddenly fly off on to a new planet, because you
think you can see to the end of this.”’

Ursula suddenly straightened herself.

“< Yes,’? she said. ‘* Yes—one knows. One has no more
connections here. One has a sort of other self, that be-
longs to a new planet, not to this. You’ve got to hop
off.””

Gudrun reflected for a few moments. Then a smile of
ridicule, almost of contempt, came over her face.

‘¢ And what will happen when you find yourself in
space ?’? she cried in derision. ‘* After all, the great ideas
of the world are the same there. You above everybody
can’t get away from the fact that love, for instance, is the
supreme thing, in space as well as on earth.”

** No,” paid Ursula, ‘¢ it isn’t. Love is too human and
little. I believe in something inhuman, of which love is
only a little part. I believe what we must fulfil comes out

CONTINENTAL =. 0° see.

of the unknown to us, and it is something infinitely more
than love. It isn’t so merely human.”’

Gudrun looked at Ursula with steady, balancing eyes.

_She admired and despised her sister so much, both! Then,
_ suddeniy she averted her face, saying coldly, uglily :
_ ** Well, I’ve got no further than love, yet.”

Over Ursula’s mind flashed the thought : ‘*‘ Because you
never have loved, you can’t get beyond it.”’

Gudrun rose, came over to Ursula and put her arm round
her neck.

** Go and find your new world, dear,’’ she said, her voice
clanging with false benignity. ‘* After all, , the happiest
voyage is the quest of Rupert’s Blessed Isles.’

Her arm rested round Ursula’s neck, a fingers on
Ursula’s cheek for a few moments. Ursula was supremely
uncomfortable meanwhile. There was an insult in Gudrun’s.
protective patronage that was really too hurting. Feeling
her sister’s resistance, Gudrun drew awkwardly away,
turned over the pillow, and disclosed the stockings
again.

‘* Ha—ha! ” she laughed, rather hollowly. ‘* How we
do talk indeed—new worlds and old—! ”’

And they passed to the familiar worldly subjects.

Gerald and Birkin had walked on ahead, waiting for the
sledge to overtake them, conveying the departing guests.

** How much longer will you stay here?’ asked Birkin,
glancing up at Gerald’s very red, almost blank face.

** Oh, I can’t say,’’ Gerald replied. ‘‘ Till we get tired
of it.”’

** You’re not afraid ot the snow melting first??? asked
Birkin.

Gerald laughed.

** Does it melt ?’” he said.

** Things are all right with you then ?”’ said Birkin.

Gerald screwed up his eyes a little.

** All right??? he said. ‘*I never know what those
common words mean. All right and all wrong, don’t they
become synonymous, somewhere P”’

** Yes, I suppose. How about going back?’ asked
Birkin.

** Oh, I don’t know. We may never get back. I don’t
look before and after,’’ said Gerald. —

** Nor pine for what is not,” said Birkin.

- Wire - ) ‘3% bes eer aur : oe Te Roe ANE e Ge Oe ke ‘ai ae
Ne ; 5 EA *: Ses Ga i aa ies RM EO

464 WOMEN INLOVE Be

Gerald looked into the distance, with the small-pupilled, —
abstract eyes of a hawk.

**'No. There’s something final about this. And Gudrun
seems like the end, to me. I don’t know—but she seems so
soft, her skin like silk, her arms heavy and soft. And it
withers my consciousness, somehow, it burns the pith of my
mind.’? He went on a few paces, staring ahead, his eyes
fixed, looking like a mask used in ghastly religions of the
barbarians. ‘* It blasts your soul’s eye,’’ he said, ** and
leaves you sightless. Yet you want to be sightless, you
want to be blasted, you don’t want it any different.”’

He was speaking as if in a trance, verbal and blank.
Then suddenly he braced himself up with a kind of rhap-
sody, and looked at Birkin with vindictive, cowed eyes,
saying :

** Do you know what it is to suffer when you are with a
woman? She’s so beautiful, so perfect, you find her so —
good, it tears you like a silk, and every stroke and bit cuts
hot—ha, that perfection, when you blast yourself, you blast
yourself! And then— ’’ he stopped on the snow and sud-
denly opened his clenched hands—‘‘ it’s nothing—your
brain might have gone charred as rags—and— ”’ he looked
round into the air with a queer histrionic movement—“ it’s
blasting—you understand what I mean—it is a great ex-
perience, something final—and then—you’re shrivelled as
if struck by electricity.” He walked on in silence. It
seemed like bragging, but like a man in extremity bragging
truthfully.

“‘ Of course,’ he resumed, ** I wouldn’t not have had
it! It’s a complete experience. And she’s a wonderful
woman. But—howI hate her somewhere! It’s curious—”

Birkin looked at him, at his strange, scarcely conscious
face. Gerald seemed blank before his own words.

‘* But you’ve had enough now?” said Birkin. ‘* You
have had your experience. Why work on an old
wound ?”’

‘© Oh,”’? said Gerald, ‘I don’t know. It’s not
finished— ”*’

And the two walked on.

‘* I’ve loved you, as well as Gudrun, don’t forget,”’ said
Birkin bitterly. Gerald looked at him strangely, ab-

stractedly. Sp
‘*‘ Have you?’’ he said, with icy scepticism. ‘“‘ Or do you

They wanted to go apart, all of them. fae
oy his Met and the sledge drove away leaving —
drun and Gerald standing on the snow, waving. Somes i
ng froze Birkin’s heart, seeing them standing there: in

CHAP : XXX. SNOWED UP

Wuen Ursula and Birkin were gone, Gudrun felt herself
free in her contest with Gerald. As they grew more used
to each other, he seemed to press upon her more and more.

At first she could manage him, so that her own will was

always left free. But very soon, he began to ignore her
female tactics, he dropped his respect for her whims and
her privacies, he began to exert his own will blindly, with-
out submitting to hers.

Already a vital conflict had set in, which frightened them

both. But he was alone, whilst already she had begun to
cast round for external resource.

When Ursula had gone, Gudrun felt her own existence ©

had become stark and elemental. She went and crouched
alone in her bedroom, looking out of the window at the big,
flashing stars. In front was the faint shadow of the

mountain-knot. That was the pivot. She felt strange and

inevitable, as if she were centred upon the pivot of all exis-
tence, there was no further reality. |
Presently Gerald opened the door. She knew he would

not be long before he came. She was rarely alone, he

pressed upon her like a frost, deadening her.

** Are you alone in the dark?’ he said. And she could —

tell by his tone he resented it, he resented this isolation she ~
had drawn round herself. Yet, feeling static and inevitable, ~

she was kind towards him.
-*€ Would you like to light the candle ?’’ she asked.

He did not answer, but came and stood behind her, in the |

darkness.

‘‘ Look,’ she said, ‘* at that lovely star up there. Do

you know its name P”’

He crouched beside her, to look through the low —

window.
** No,”’ he said. ‘* It is very fine.” ;

/

‘* Isn’t it beautiful! Do you notice how it darts different 4

coloured fires—it flashes really superbly— ”’
_They remained in silence. With a mute, heavy gesture
she put her hand on his knee, and took his hand.
** Are you regretting Ursula ?’’ he asked.
466

'
"
is
h”

Tyra iv. WOE

SNOWED UP 467 —
** No, not at all,’’ she said. Then, in a slow mood, she
asked :
** How much do you love me ?”’
He stiffened himself further against her.
** How much do you think I do?’’ he asked.
** IT don’t know,” she replied.
/ ** But what is your opinion ?’’ he asked.
There was a pause. At length, in the darkness, came her
voice, hard and indifferent :
’ ** Very little indeed,” she said coldly, almost flippant.
His heart went icy at the sound of her voice.
** Why don’t I love you?”’ he asked, as if admitting the
truth of her accusation, yet hating her for it.
** I don’t know why you don’t—I’ve been good to you.
You were in a fearful state when you came to me.”’
Her heart was beating to suffocate her, yet she was strong
and unrelenting.
_ ** When was I in a fearful state ?’’ he asked.
** When you first came to me. _iI had to take pity on
you. But it was never love.”’
It was that statement ‘It was never love,’ which
sounded in his ears with madness.
*“* Why must you repeat it so often, that there is no
love ?”? he said in a voice strangled with rage.
** Well you don’t think you love, do you?”’ she asked.
He was silent with cold passion of anger.
** You don’t think you can love me, do you?” she re-
peated almost with a sneer.
** No,”’ he said.
** You know you never have loved me, don’t you?”’
** IT don’t know what you mean by the word ‘ love,’ ”’ he
replied.
Yes, you do. You know all right that you have never
loved me. Have you, do you think ?”’
** No,’’ he said, prompted by some barren spirit of truth-
fulness and obstinacy.
** And you never will love me,” she said finally, ‘* will
/ you?”
There was a diabolic coldness in her, too much
to bear.
» ** No,’’ he said.
** Then,”’ she replied, ‘‘ what have you against me! ”’
He was silent in cold, frightened rage and despair. ‘“ Ii

468 WOMEN IN LOVE |

only I could kill her,”’ his heart was whispering repeatedly.
** If only I could kill her—I should be free.”? 9

It seemed to him that death was the only severing of this
Gordian knot. .

** Why do you torture me ?”’ he said.

She flung her arms round his neck.

** Ah, I don’t want to torture you,” she said nityiaelee
as if she were comforting a child. The impertinence made —
his veins go cold, he was insensible. She held her arms —
round his neck, in a triumph of pity. And her pity for him
was as cold as stone, its deepest motive was hate of him, —
and fear of his power over her, which she must always —
counterfoil. 3

** Say you love me,” she pleaded. ‘‘ Say you will love —
me for ever—won’t you—won’t you ?”’

But it was her voice only that coaxed him. Her senses —
were entirely apart from him, cold and destructive of him. —
It was her overbearing will that insisted. |

** Won’t you say you’ll love me always?” she coaxed. —
** Say it, even if it isn’t true—say it Gerald, do.’ 4

ele | will love you always,’’ he repeated, in real ngOUys t.
forcing the words out. ;

She gave him a quick kiss. c

** Fancy your actually having said it,’’ she said with a
touch of raillery.

He stood as if he had been beaten.

‘* Try to love me a little more, and to want me a
little less,’’ she said, in a half contemptuous, half con
tone.

The darkness seemed to be swaying in waves across hig} 7
mind, great waves of darkness plunging across his mind. Ita
seemed to him he was degraded at the very quick, made of

no account.
** You mean you don’t want me?’’ he said.
** You are so insistent, and there is so little grace in you,
so little fineness. You are so crude. You break me—yau ‘
only waste me—it is horrible to me.’ q
** Horrible to you?” he repeated. r
** Yes. Don’t you think I might have a room to my- b
self, now Ursula has gone? You can say you want a dream
ing room.’ 3
*‘ You do as you like—you can leave altogether if ye :
like,’? he managed to articulate.

aes Mi OU RT RA Sky ke VON |
eae Dias oy) ee wy See wae VY Tl
Fe Wty at!» alia te ef Ore -

SNOWED UP 469

** Yes, I know that,’’ she replied. ‘* So can you. You
can leave me whenever you like—without notice even.”

The great tides of darkness were swinging across his
mind, he could hardly stand upright. A terrible weariness
overcame him, he felt he must lie on the floor. Dropping
off his clothes, he got into bed, and lay like a man suddenly
overcome by drunkenness, the darkness lifting and plunging
as if he were lying upon a black, giddy sea. He lay still in
this strange, horrific reeling for some time, purely uncon-
scious.

At length she slipped from her own bed and came over
to him. He remained rigid, his back to her. He was all
but unconscious.

She put her arms round iis terrifying, insentient body,
and laid her cheek against his hard shoulder.

** Gerald,’’ she whispered. ‘‘ Gerald.’ |

There was no change in him. She caught him against
her. She pressed her breasts against his shoulders, she
kissed his shoulder, through the sleeping jacket. Her mind
wondered, over his rigid, unliving body. She was bewil-
dered, and insistent, only her will was set for him to speak
to her.

** Gerald, my dear! ’? she whispered, bending over him,
kissing his ear.

Her warm breath playing, flying rhythmically over his
ear, seemed to relax the tension. She-could feel his body
gradually relaxing a little, losing its terrifying, unnatural
rigidity. Her hands clutched his limbs, his muscles, going
over him spasmodically.

The hot blood began to flow again through his veins, his
limbs relaxed. :

*‘ Turn round to me,’’ she whispered, forlorn with insis-
tence and triumph.

So at last he was given again, warm and flexible. He
turned and gathered her in his arms. And feeling her soft
against him, so perfectly and wondrously soft and recipient,

his arms tightened on her. She was as if crushed, power-

less in him. His brain seemed hard and invincible now like
a, jewel, there was no resisting him.
His passion was awful to her, tense and ghastly, and im-

_ personal, like a destruction, ultimate. She felt it would

kill her. She was being killed.
** My God, my God,’’ she cried, in anguish, in his em-.

470 WOMEN IN LOVE ge

brace, feeling her life being killed within her. And when
he was kissing her, soothing her, her breath came slowly, as
if she were really spent, dying.

** Shall I die, shall I die?’? she repeated to herself.

And in the night, and in him, there was no answer to the
question.

And yet, next day, the fragment of her which was not de-

stroyed remained intact and hostile, she did not go away, ©
she remained to finish the holiday, admitting nothing. He
scarcely ever left her alone, but followed her like a shadow,
he was like a doom upon her, a continual ‘ thou shalt,’
* thou shalt not.” Sometimes it was he who seemed strong-
est, whilst she was almost gone, creeping near the earth like
a spent wind ; sometimes it was the reverse. But always it
was this eternal see-saw, one destroyed that the other might
exist, one ratified because the other was nulled.

** In the end,” she said to herself, *‘ I shall go away
from him.”’

“1 can be free of her,’? he said to himself in his
paroxysms of suffering. ny

And he set himself to be free. He even prepared to go
away, to leave herin the lurch. But for the first time there ©
was a flaw in his will.

** Where shall I go ?”’ he asked himself.

** Can’t you be self-sufficient ?’’ he replied to himself, put-
ting himself upon his pride.

** Self-sufficient ! ’? he repeated.

It seemed to him that Gudrun was sufficient unto herself,
closed round and completed, like a thing in a case. In the
calm, static reason of his soul, he recognised this, and ad-
mitted it was her right, to be closed round upon herself,
self-complete, without desire. He realised it, he admitted
it, 1t only needed one last effort on his own part, to win for
himself the same completeness. He knew that it only ©
needed one convulsion of his will for him to be able to turn
upon himself also, to close upon himself as a stone fixes upon ~
itself, and 1s impervious, self-completed, a thing isolated. —

This knowledge threw him into a terrible chaos. Be-
cause, however much he might mentally will to be immune —
and self-complete, the desire for this state was lacking, and
he could not create it. He could see that, to exist at all, —
he must be perfectly free of Gudrun, leave her if she wanted ~
to be left, demand nothing of her, have no claim upon her. ~

ee ee

en ee Lys Pe paet, e ee a ae ee eT
eh ar Ng | ea ae

BP Roast fg) Seat Te I .

i TOSI * Ps

“SNOWED UP AT.

But then, to have no claim upon her, he must stand by
himself, in sheer nothingness. And his brain turned to
nought at the idea. It was a state of nothingness. On
the other hand, he might give in, and fawn to her. Or,
finally, he might kill her. Or he might become just indif-
ferent, purposeless, dissipated, momentaneous. But his
nature was too serious, not gay enough or subtle enough for
mocking licentiousness.

A strange rent had been torn in him; like a victim that is
torn open and given to the heavens, so he had been torn
apart and given to Gudrun. How should he close again?
This wound, this strange, infinitely-sensitive opening of his
soul, where he was exposed, like an open flower, to all the
universe, and in which he was given to his.complement, the
other, the unknown, this wound, this disclosure, this un-
folding of his own covering, leaving him incomplete, limited,
unfinished, like an open flower under the sky, this was his
eruelest joy. Why then should he forego it? Why should
he close up and become impervious, immune, like a partial
thing in a sheath, when he had broken forth, like a seed that
has germinated, to issue forth in being, embracing the un-
realised heavens.

He would keep the unfinished bliss of his own yearning
even through the torture she inflicted upon him. A strange
obstinacy possessed him. He would not go away from her
whatever she said or did. A strange, deathly yearning
carried him along with her. She was the determinating
influence of his very. being, though she treated him with
contempt, repeated rebuffs, and denials, still he would never
be gone, since in being near her, even, he felt the quicken-
ing, the going forth in him, the release, the knowledge of
his own limitation and the magic of the promise, as well as
the mystery of his own destruction and annihilation.

She tortured the open heart of him even as he turned to

- her. And she was tortured herself. It may have been her
_ will was stronger. She felt, with horror, as if he tore at the

bud of her heart, tore it open, like an irreverent persistent
being. Like a boy who pulls off a fly’s wings, or tears open
a, bud to see what is in the flower, he tore at her privacy, at
her very life, he would destroy her as an immature bud,
torn open, is destroyed.

She might open towards him, a long while hence, in her
dreams, when she was a pure spirit. But now she was not

472 WOMEN IN LOVE

to be violated and ruined. She closed against him
fiercely.

They climbed together, at evening, up the high slope, to’
see the sun set. In the finely breathing, keen wind they
stood and watched the yellow sun sink in crimson and dis-
appear. Then in the east the peaks and ridges glowed with
living rose, incandescent like immortal flowers against a
brown-purple sky, a miracle, whilst down below the world
was a bluish shadow, and above, like an annunciation,
hovered a rosy transport in mid air.

To her it was so beautiful, it was a delirium, she wanted to
gather the glowing, eternal peaks to her breast, and die. He
saw them, saw they were beautiful. But there arose no
clamour in his breast, only a bitterness that was visionary
in itself. He wished the peaks were grey and unbeautiful,
so that she should not get her support from them. Why did
she betray the two of them so terribly, in embracing the
glow of the evening? Why did she leave him standing
there, with the ice-wind blowing through his heart, like
death, to gratify herself among the rosy snow-tips ?

. What does the twilight matter??? he said. ‘* Why do
, you grovel before it? Is it so important to you ?”’

She winced i in violation and in fury.

** Go away,” she cried, ‘* and leave me to it. It is beau-
tiful, beautiful,’’ she sang in strange, rhapsodic tones. ‘* It
is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen in my life.
Don’t try to come between it and me. ‘Take yourself
away, you are out of place— ”’ I.

He stood back a little, and left. her standing there, statue-
like, transported into the mystic glowing east. Already the
rose was fading, large white stars were flashing out. He
waited. He would forego everything but the yearning.

‘* That was the most perfect thing I have ever seen,”
she said in cold, brutal tones, when at last she turned round -
to him. ‘* It amazes me that you should want to destroy
it. If you can’t see it yourself, why try to debar me?’
But in reality, he had destroyed it for her, she was strain-
ing after a dead effect.

*€ One day,’’ he said, softly, looking up at her, “‘ I shall
destroy you, as you stand looking at the sunset; because
you are such a liar.”’ |

There was a soft, voluptuous promise to himself in the
words. She was chilled but arrogant.

SNOWED UP 473
** Ha!’ she said. ‘‘ I am not afraid of your threats! ”
She denied hefself to him, she kept her room rigidly

private to herself. But he waited on, in a curious geherstniine

belonging to his yearning for her.

** In the end,’’ he said to himself with real voluptuous
promise, ‘° when it reaches that point, I shall do away with
her.”? And he trembled delicately in every limb, in antici-
pation, as he trembled in his most violent accesses of pas-
sionate approach to her, trembling with too much desire.

She had a curious sort of allegiance with Loerke, ali the
while, now, something insidious and traitorous. Gerald
knew of it. But in the unnatural state of patience, and the
unwillingness to harden himself against her, in which he
found himself, he took no notice, although her soft kindli-
ness to the other man, whom he hated as a noxious insect,
made him shiver again with an access of the strange shud-
dering that came over him repeatedly.

He left her alone only when he went ski-ing, a sport he
loved, and which she did not practice. Then he seemed to
sweep out of life, to be a projectile into the beyond. And
often, when he went away, she talked to the little German
sculptor. They had an invariable topic, in their art.

They were almost of the same ideas. He hated Mes-
trovic, was not satisfied with the Futurists, he liked the
West African wooden figures, the Aztec art, Mexican and
Central American. He saw the grotesque, and a curious
sort of mechanica) motion intoxicated him, a confusion in
nature. They had a curious gamé with each other, Gud-
run and Loerke, of infinite suggestivity, strange and leer-
ing, as if they had some esoteric understanding of life, that
they alone were initiated into the fearful central secrets,
that the world dared not know. Their whole correspon-
dence was in a strange, barely comprehensible suggestivity,
they kindled themselves at the subtle lust of the
Egyptians or the Mexicans. The whole game was one of
subtle inter-suggestivity, and they wanted to keep it on the
plane of suggestion. From their verbal and physical
nuances they got the highest satisfaction in the nerves,
from a queer interchange of half-suggested ideas, looks, ex-
pressions and gestures, which were quite intolerable, though
incomprehensible, to-Gerald. He had no terms in which to
think of their commerce, his terms were much too gross.

The suggestion of primitive art was their refuge, and the

474 WOMEN IN LOVE

inner mysteries of sensation their object of worship. Art
and Life were to them the Reality and the Unreality.

** Of course,’’ said Gudrun, ** life doesn’t really matter—
it is one’s art which is central. What one does in one’s life
has peu de rapport, it doesn’t signify much.”

** Yes, that is 80, exactly,’ replied the sculptor. ‘* What
one does in one’s art, that is the breath of one’s being.
What one does in one’s life, that is a bagatelle for the out-
siders to fuss about.’’

It was curious what a sense of elation and freedom Gud-

- run found in this communication. She felt established for
ever. Of course Gerald was bagatelle. Love was one of
the temporal things in her life, except in so far as she was
an artist. She thought of Cleopatra—Cleopatra must have
been an artist; she reaped the essential from a man, she
harvested the ultimate sensation, and threw away the husk;
and Mary Stuart, and the great Rachel, panting with her
lovers after the theatre, these were the exoteric exponents —
of love. After all, what was the lover but fuel for the
transport of this subtle knowledge, for a female art, the art
of pure, perfect knowledge in sensuous understanding.

One evening Gerald was arguing, with Loerke about Italy
and Tripoli. The Englishman was in a strange, inflam-
mable state, the German was excited. It was a contest of
words, but it meant a conflict of spirit between the two men.
And all the while Gudrun could see in Gerald an arrogant —
English contempt for a foreigner. Although Gerald was —
quivering, his eyes flashing, his face flushed, in his argu-
ment there was a brusqueness, a savage contempt in his >
manner, that made Gudrun’s blood flare up, and made
Loerke keen and mortified. For Gerald came down like a ©
sledge-hammer with his assertions, anything the little Ger-
man said was merely contemptible rubbish. |

At last Loerke turned to Gudrun, raising his hands in ©
helpless irony, a shrug of ironical dismissal, something ap-
pealing and child-like. 4

** Sehen sie, gnadige Frau— ”’ he began. 3

‘* Bitte sagen Sie nicht immer, gnadige Frau,” cried Gud- a
run, her eyes flashing, her cheeks burning. She looked ©
like a vivid Medusa. Her voice was loud and clamorous, ~
the other people in the room were startled. ; .

‘‘ Please don’t call me Mrs Crich,”’ she cried aloud.

The name, in Loerke’s mouth particularly, had been an

SNOWED UP AT5

intolerable humiliation and constraint upon her, these many
days.

The two men looked at her in amazement. Gerald went
white at the cheek-bones.

* * What shall I say, then?’? asked Loerke, with soft,
mocking insinuation.

** Sagen Sie nur nicht das,’’ she muttered, her cheeks
flushed crimson. ‘* Not that, at least.’’

She saw, by the dawning look on Loerke’s face, that he
had understood. She was not Mrs Crich! So-o-, that ex-
plained a great deal. .

** Soll ich Fraulein sagen ?’’ he asked, malevolently.

** T am not married,’’ she said, with some hauteur.

Her heart was fluttering now, beating like a bewildered
bird. She knew she had dealt a cruel wound, and she
could not bear it.

Gerald sat erect, perfectly still, his face pale and calm,
like the face of a statue. He was unaware of her, or of
Loerke or anybody. He sat perfectly still, in an unalter-
able calm. lLoerke, meanwhile, was crouching and glanc-
ing up from under his ducked head.

Gudrun was tortured for something to say, to relieve the
suspense. She twisted her face in a smile, and glanced
knowingly, almost sneering, at Gerald.

** Truth is best,’’ she said to him, with a grimace.

But now again she was under his domination; now, be-
cause she had dealt him this blow; because she had
destroyed him, and she did not know how he had taken it.
She watched him. He was interesting to her. She had lost
her interest in Loerke.

Gerald rose at length, and went over in a leisurely still
movement, to the professor. The two began a conversa-
tion on Goethe.

She was rather piqued by the simplicity of Gerald’s de-
meanour this evening. He did not seem angry or disgust-
ed, only he looked curiously innocent and pure, really beau-
tiful. Sometimes it came upon him, this look of clear dis-
tance, and it always fascinated her.

She waited, troubled, throughout the evening. She
thought he would avoid her, or give some sign. But he
spoke to her simply and unemotionally, as he would to
anyone else in the room. A certain peace, an abstraction
_ possessed his soul.

RAN aegis cae hin Sk Bea rhe rN cto | paid 0

476 WOMEN IN LOVE "a

She went to his room, hotly, violently in love with him. —
He was so beautiful and inaccessible. He kissed her, he was _
a lover to her. And she had extreme pleasure of him. But —
he did not come to, he remained remote and candid, uncon- —
scious. She wanted to speak to him. But this innocent, —
beautiful state of unconsciousness that had come upon him —
prevented her. She felt tormented and dark. i

In the morning, however, he looked at her with a little
aversion, some horror and some hatred darkening into his —
eyes. She withdrew on to her old ground. But still he
would not gather himself together, against her. ;

Loerke was waiting for her now. The little artist, —
isolated in his own complete envelope, felt that here at last ©
was a woman from whom he could get something. He was —
uneasy all the while, waiting to talk with her, subtly con-—
triving to be near her. Her presence filled him with keen- —
ness and excitement, he gravitated cunningly towards her,
as if she had some unseen force of attraction. _ |

He was not in the least doubtful of himself, as regards
Gerald. Gerald was one of the outsiders. Loerke only —
hated him for being rich and proud and of fine appearance.
All these things, however, riches, pride of social standing,
handsome physique, were externals. When it came to the —
relation with a woman such as Gudrun, he, Loerke, had an
approach and a power that Gerald never dreamed of.

How should Gerald hope to satisfy a woman of Gudrun’s
calibre? Did he think that pride or masterful will or
physical strength would help him? Loerke knew a secret —
beyond these things. The greatest power is the one that is
subtle and adjusts itself, not one which blindly attacks.
And he, Loerke, had understanding where Gerald was a
calf. He, Loerke, could penetrate into depths far out of
Gerald’s knowledge. Gerald was left behind like a postu-
lant in the ante-room of this temple of mysteries, this
woman. But he Loerke, could he not penetrate into the
inner darkness, find the spirit of the woman in its inner —
recess, and wrestle with it there, the central serpent that
is coiled at the core of life.

What was it, after all, that a woman wanted? Was it
mere social effect, fulfilment of ambition in the social
world, in the community of mankind? Was it even a union
in love and goodness? Did she want ‘‘ goodness *”?? Who
but a fool would accept this of Gudrun? This was but the

Feel

SNOWED UP | Na

street view of her wants. Cross the threshold, and you

found her completely, completely cynical about the social

world and its advantages. Once inside the house of her

soul, and there was a pungent atmosphere of corrosion, an

inflamed darkness of sensation, and a vivid, subtle, critical

- consciousness, that saw the world distorted, horrific.

What then, what next? Was it sheer blind force of pas-
sion that would satisfy her now? Not this, but the subtle
thrills of extreme sensation in reduction. It was an un-
broken will reacting against her unbroken will in a myriad
subtle thrills of reduction, the last subtle activities of
analysis and breaking down, carried out in the darkness of
her, whilst the outside form, the individual, was utterly
unchanged, even sentimental in its poses.

But between two particular people, any two people on
earth, the range of pure sensational experience is limited.
The climax of sensual reaction, once reached in any direc-
tion, is reached finally, there is no going on. There is only
repetition possible, or the going apart of the two protagon-
ists, or the subjugating of the one will to the other, or
death. '

Gerald had penetrated all the outer places of Gudrun’s
soul. He was to her the most crucial instance of the exist-
ing world, the ne plus ultra of the world of man as it exist-
ed for her. In him she knew the world, and had done with
it. Knowing him finally she was the Alexander seeking
new worlds. But there were no new worlds, there were no
more men, there were only creatures, little, ultimate
creatures like Loerke. The world was finished now, for

her. There was only the inner, individual darkness, sen-

sation within the ego, the obscene religious mystery of ulti-
mate reduction, the mystic frictional activities of diabolic
reducing down, disintegrating the vital organic body of life.

All this Gudrun knew in her subconsciousness, not in her
mind. She knew her next step—she knew what she should
move on to, when she left Gerald. She was afraid of
Gerald, that he might kill her. But she did not intend to
be killed. A fine thread still united her to him. It should
not be her death which broke it. She had further to go, a
further, slow exquisite experience to reap, unthinkable
subtleties of sensation to know, before she was finished.

Of the last series of subtleties, Gerald was not capable.

He could not touch the quick of her. But where his ruder

| Ns | Re Oc gts a
478 WOMEN IN LOVE eg

blows could not penetrate, the fine, insinuating blade of ©
Loerke’s insect-like comprehension could. At least, it was

time for her now to pass over to the other, the creature, the -
final craftsman. She knew that Loerke, in his innermost —
soul, was detached from everything, for him there was

neither heaven nor earth nor hell. He admitted no alle-
giance, he gave no adherence anywhere. He was single —
and, by abstraction from the rest, absolute in himself. |

Whereas in Gerald’s soul there still lingered some attach- —
ment to the rest, to the whole. And this was his limitation. —
He was limited, borné, subject to his necessity, in the last —
issue, for goodness, for righteousness, for oneness with the —
ultimate purpose. That the ultimate purpose might be the ~
perfect and subtle experience of the process of death, the ~
will being kept unimpaired, that was not allowed in him. ~
And this was his limitation.

There was a hovering triumph in Loerke, since Gudrun ~
had denied her marriage with Gerald. The artist seemed to ©
hover like a creature on the wing, waiting to settle. He ©
did not approach Gudrun violently, he was never ill-timed. ~
But carried on by a sure instinct in the complete darkness
of his soul, he corresponded mystically with her, impercep-
tibly, but palpably.

For two days, he talked to her, continued the discussions —
of art, of life, in which they both found such pleasure. —
They praised the by-gone things, they took a sentimental,
childish delight in the achieved perfections of the past.
Particularly they liked the late eighteenth century, the —
period of Goethe and of Shelley, and Mozart. :

They played with the past, and with the great figures of
the past, a sort of little game of chess, or marionettes, all ©
to please themselves. They had all the great men for their ©
marionettes, and they two were the God of the show, work- ©
ing it all. As for the future, that they never mentioned —
except one laughed out some mocking dream of the destruc- —
tion of the world by a ridiculous catastrophe of man’s inven- —
tion : a man invented such a perfect explosive that it blew —
the earth in two, and the two halves set off in different —
directions through space, to the dismay of the inhabitants: —
or else the people of the world divided into two halves, and —
each half decided it was perfect and right, the other half was —
wrong and must be destroyed; so another end of the world. —
Or else, Loerke’s dream of fear, the world went cold, and ©

a

SNOWED UP 479

snow fell everywhere, and only white creatures, polar-bears,
white foxes, and men like awful white snow-birds, persisted
in ice cruelty.

Apart from these stories, they never talked of the future.
They delighted most either in mocking imaginations of de-
struction, or in sentimental, fine marionette-shows of the
past. It was a sentimental delight to reconstruct the world
of Goethe at Weimar, or of Schiller and poverty and faithful
love, or to see again Jean Jacques in his quakings, or Vol-
taire at Ferney, or Frederick the Great reading his own

etry.

They talked together for hours, of literature and sculp-
ture and painting, amusing themselves with Flaxman and
Blake and Fuseli, with tenderness, and with Feuerbach and
Bécklin. It would take them a life-time, they felt to live
again, in petto, the lives of the great artists. But they
preferred to stay in the eighteenth and the nineteenth
centuries.

They talked in a mixture of languages. The ground-work
was French, in either case. But he ended most of his sen-
tences in a stumble of English and a conclusion of German,
she skilfully wove herself to her end in whatever phrase
came to her. She took a peculiar delight in this conversa-

‘tion. It was full of odd, fantastic expression, of double

meanings, of evasions, of suggestive vagueness. It was a
real physical pleasure to her to make this thread of conver-
sation out of the different-coloured~ strands of three

' languages.

And all the while they two were hovering, hesitating
round the flame of some invisible declaration. He wanted
it, but was held back by some inevitable reluctance. She
wanted it also, but she wanted to put it off, to put it off
indefinitely, she still had some pity for Gerald, some con-
nection with him. And the most fatal of all, she had the
reminiscent sentimental compassion for herself in connection
with him. Because of what had been, she felt herself held
to him by immortal, invisible threads—because of what had
been, because of his coming to her that first night, into her
own house, in his extremity, because —

Gerald was gradually overcome with a revulsion of loath-
ing for Loerke. He did not take the man seriously, he

_ despised him merely, except as he felt in Gudrun’s veins the

influence of the little creature. It was this that drove

— 480 “WOMEN IN ‘LOVE.

Gerald wild, the feeling in Gudrun’s veins of Loerke’s pre-
sence, Loerke’ s being, flowing dominant through her.
‘* What makes you so smitten with that little vermin poe)
he asked, really puzzled. For he, man-like, could not see —
anything attractive or important at all in Loerke. Gerald
expected to find some handsomeness or nobleness, to ©
account for a woman’s subjection. But he saw none here,

+4
a
k

i

only an insect-like repulsiveness.
Gudrun flushed deeply. It was these attacks she would
never forgive. q
«‘ What do you mean?” she replied. ‘* My God, what a
mercy I am not married to you! ” :
Her voice of flouting and contempt scotched him. He ~
was brought up short. But he recovered himself. i
** Tell me, only tell me,’ he reiterated in a dangerous
narrowed voice—* tell me what it is that fascinates you in
him.’ |
t am not fascinated,’? she said, with cold repelling
innocence.
** Yes, you are. You are fascinated by that little dry 4
snake, like a bird gaping ready to fall down its throat.”
She looked at him with black fury.
** I don’t choose to be discussed by you,”’ she said. 2
** It doesn’t matter whether you choose or not,’’ he re-—
plied, ‘* that doesn’t alter the fact that you are ‘ready to
fall down and kiss the feet of that little insect. And I don’t
want to prevent you—do it, fall down and kiss his feet.
But I want to know, what it is that fascinates you—what
is it??? ;
She was silent, suffused with black rage. a
** How dare you come brow-beating me,’’ she cried, P
** how dare you, you little squire, you bully. What right
have you over me, do you think?” *
His face was white and gleaming, she knew by the light —
in his eyes that she was in his power—the wolf. And be-—
cause she was in his power, she hated him with a power that
she wondered did not kill him. In her will she killed
him as he stood, effaced him. a
** It is not a question of right,”’ said Gerald, sitting down
on a chair. She watched the change in his body. She saw
his clenched, ‘mechanical body moving there like an obses-
sion. Her Lotied of him was tinged with fatal contempt. a

Si Ay se aa aaa a
esp wee oe > ee !
yr 88 ‘.

‘ SNOWED UP 481

some right, remember. I want to know, I only want to
know what it is that subjugates you to that little scum of a
sculptor downstairs, what it is that brings you down like a

-humble maggot, in worship of him. I want to know what

you creep after.”’

She stood over against the window, listening. Then she
turned round. !

‘© Do you?” she said, in her most easy, most cutting
voice. ‘* Do you want to know what it isin him? It’s
because he has some understanding of a woman, because he
is not stupid. That’s why it is.”’

_A queer, sinister, animal-like smile came over Gerald’s
face.

** But what understanding is it?’ he said. ‘‘ The under-
standing of a flea, a hopping flea with a proboscis. Why
should you crawl abject before the understanding of a

hemes fr?’

There passed through Gudrun’s mind Blake’s representa-

tion of the soul of a flea. She wanted to fit it to Loerke.

Blake was a clown too. But it was necessary to answer

_ Gerald.

** Don’t you think the understanding of a flea is more in-
teresting than the understanding of a fool?’’ she asked.

** A fool! *? he repeated.

** A fool, a conceited fool—a Dummkopf,”’ she replied,
adding the German word. :

** Do you call me a fool?’ he replied. ‘ Well, wouldn’t
I rather be the fool I am, than that flea downstairs ?”’

She looked at him. A certain blunt, blind stupidity in
him palled on her soul, limiting her.

** You give yourself away by that last,’’ she said.

He sat and wondered.

** I shall go away soon,”’ he said.

She turned on him.

** Remember,” she said, ‘‘ I am completely independent
of you—completely. You make your arrangements, I make
mine.”’

He pondered this.

** You mean we are strangers from this minute ?”’ he
asked.

She halted and flushed. He was putting her in a trap,

forcing her hand. She turned round on him.

apres t=

$s oe she said, *‘ we can never be. But if you
H

482 WOMEN IN LOVE

want to make any movement apart from me, then I wish
you to know you are perfectly free to do so. Do not con-
sider me in the slightest.”’

Even so slight an implication that she needed him and
was depending on him still was sufficient to rouse his pas-
sion. As he sat a change came over his body, the hot,

molten stream mounted involuntarily through his veins.

He groaned inwardly, under its bondage, but he loved it.
He looked at her with clear eyes, waiting for her.

She knew at once, and was shaken with cold revulsion.
How could he look at her with those clear, warm, waiting
eyes, waiting for her, even now? What had been said be-
tween them, was it not enough to put them worlds asunder,
to freeze them forever apart! And yet he was all trans-
fused and roused, waiting for her.

It confused her. Turning her head aside, she said :

** T shall always tell you, whenever I am going to make
any change— ”’

And with this she moved out of the room.

He sat suspended in a fine recoil of disappointment, that

seemed gradually to be destroying his understanding. But

the unconscious state of patience persisted in him. He re-—

mained motionless, without thought or knowledge, for a
long time. Then he rose, and went downstairs, to play at
chess with one of the students. His face was open and
clear, with a certain innocent laisser-aller that troubled

Gudrun most, made her almost afraid of him, whilst she dis- 4

liked him deeply for it.

It was after this that Loerke, who had never yet spoken —

to her personally, began to ask her of her state.

** You are not married at all, are you?’’ he asked.

She looked full at him.

** Not in the least,’’ she replied, in her measured way.
Loerke laughed, wrinkling up his face oddly. There was a
thin wisp of his hair straying on his forehead, she noticed

that his skin was of a clear brown colour, his hands, his —
wrists. And his hands seemed closely prehensile. He —

seemed like topaz, so strangely brownish and pellucid.
** Good,”’’ he said.
Still it needed some courage for him to go on.
** Was Mrs Birkin your sister ?’’ he asked.
gules Ce
** And was she married P”’

SNOWED UP . 483

** She was married.”’

** Have you parents, then ?”’

** Yes,”’ said Gudrun, ‘* we have parents.”

And she told him, briefly, laconically, her position. He
watched her closely, curiously all the while.

** So! ’? he exclaimed, with some surprise. ‘* And the

Herr Crich, is he rich?’’
_ *€ Yes, he is rich, a coal owner.”’

** How long has your friendship with him lasted ?’’

** Some months.”’

There was a pause.

** Yes, I am surprised,’? he said at length. ‘* The
English, I thought they were so—cold. And what do you
think to do when you leave here ?’’

** What do I think to do?” she repeated.

** Yes. You cannot go back to the teaching. No— ”’
he shrugged his shoulders—*‘ that is impossible. Leave
that to the canaille who can do nothing else. You, for your
part—you know, you are a remarkable woman, eine selt-
same Frau. Why deny it—why make any question of it?
You are an extraordinary woman, why should you follow
the ordinary course, the ordinary life ?”’

Gudrun sat looking at her hands, flushed. She was
pleased that he said, so simply, that she was a remarkable
woman. He would not say that to flatter her—he was far
too self-opinionated and objective by nature. He said it
as he would say a piece of sculpture was remarkable, because
he knew it was so.

And it gratified her to hear it from him. Other people -
had such a passion to make everything of one degree, of
one pattern. In England it was chic to be perfectly
ordinary. And it was a relief to her to be acknowledged
extraordinary. Then she need not fret about the common
standards.

** You see,’’ she said, ‘* I have no money whatsoever.’’

** Ach, money! ”’ he cried, lifting his shoulders. ‘* When
one is grown up, money is lying about at one’s service. It
is only when one is young that it is rare. Take no thought
for money—that always lies to hand.’’

** Does it ?”’ she said, laughing.

** Always. The Gerald will give you a sum, if you ask
him for it— ”’

She flushed deeply.

| Og Ee) Te ae
484 WOMEN IN LOVE ie

** T will ask anybody else,’’ she said, with some difficulty
—** but not him.”’ :

Loerke looked closely at her.

** Good,’’ he said. ‘* Then let it be somebody else. Only
don’t go back to that England, that school. No, that is
stupid.”’ : :

Again there was a pause. He was afraid to ask her out-
right to go with him, he was not even quite sure he wanted
her; and she was afraid to be asked. He begrudged his own
isolation, was very chary of sharing his life, even for a day.

** The onty other place I know is Paris,” she said, ** and
I can’t.stand that.”’ |

She looked with her wide, steady eyes full at Loerke. He
lowered his head and averted his face.

** Paris, no! ’? he said. ‘* Between the réligion d’amour,
and the latest ’ism, and the new turning to Jesus, one had ©
better ride on a carrousel all day. But come to Dresden. —
I have a studio there—I can give you work,—oh, that would
be easy enough. I haven’t seen any of your. things, but I
believe in you. Come to Dresden—that is a fine town to —
be in, and as good a life as you can expect of atown. You —
have everything there, without the foolishness of Paris or —
the beer of Munich.”’ ‘

He sat and looked at her, coldly. What she liked about —
him was that he spoke to her simple and flat, as to himself. —
He was a fellow craftsman, a fellow being to her, first.

** No—Paris,’’ he resumed, ‘* it makes me sick. Pah—
l’amour. I detest it. L’amour, l’amore, die Liebe—I de-
test it in every language. Women and love, there is no
greater tedium,”’ he cried.

She was slightly offended. And yet, this was her own
basic feeling. Men, and love—there was no greater tedium.

** I think the same,”’ she said. A

** A bore,’’ he repeated. ‘* What does it matter whether 1
I wear this hat or another. So love. I needn’t wear a hat —
at all, only for convenience. Neither need I love except for —
convenience. I tell you what, gnadige Frau— ”’ and he: q
leaned towards her—then he made a quick, odd gesture, as —
of striking something aside—*‘ gnadige Fraulein, never mind —
—I tell you what, I would give everything, everything, all —
your love, for a little companionship in intelligence— ”’ his —
eyes flickered darkly, evilly at her. ‘* You understand?” —
he asked, with a faint smile. ‘* It wouldn’t matter if she q

tg act ee ee ee ee
RN Gs iy ae a ae ars

SNOWED UP 485

were a hundred years old, a thousand—it would be all the
same to me, so that she can understand.’’ He shut his
eyes with a little snap.

Again Gudrun was rather offended. Did he not think
her good-looking, then? Suddenly she laughed.

** T shall have to wait about eighty years to suit you, at
that,’’ she said. ‘* I am ugly enough, aren’t I? ”’

He looked at her with an artist’s sudden, critical, esti-
mating eye.

** You are beautiful,’’ he said, *‘ and I am glad of it.
But it isn’t that—it isn’t that, 2 he cried, with emphasis
that flattered her. ‘* It is that you have a certain wit, it
is the kind of understanding. For me, I am little, chétif,
insignificant. Good! Do not ask me to be strong and
handsome, then. But it is the me— ”’ he put his fingers to
his mouth, oddly—*‘ it is the me that is looking for a mis-
tress, and my me is waiting for the thee of the mistress, for
the match to my particular intelligence. You understand ?’’

** Yes,’’ she said, ‘* I understand.’’

** As for the other, this amour— ’”’ he made a gesture,
dashing his hand aside, as if to dash away something
troublesome—*‘ it is unimportant, unimportant. Does it
matter, whether I drink white wine this evening, or whether
I drink nothing? It does not matter, it does not matter.
So this love, this amour, this baiser. Yes or no, soit ou soit
pas, to-day, to-morrow, or never, it is all the same, it does
not matter—no more than the white wine.”’

He ended with an odd dropping of the head in a desperate
negation. Gudrun watched him steadily. She had gone
pale. | ,

Suddenly she stretched over and seized his hand in her
own.

** That is true,’”’ she said, in rather a high, vehement
voice, ** that is true for me too. It is the understanding
that matters.”’

He looked up at her almost frightened, furtive. Then he
nodded, a little sullenly. She let go his hand : he had made
not the lightest response. And they sat in silence.

** Do you know,”’ he said, suddenly looking at her with
dark, self-important, prophetic eyes, ** your fate and mine,
they will run together, till— *’ and he broke off in a little
grimace.

** Till when ?”? she asked, blanched, her lips going white.

486 WOMEN IN LOVE

She was terribly susceptible to these evil prognostications,
but he only shook his head.

** I don’t know,”’ he said, ** I don’t know.’’

Gerald did not come in from his ski-ing until nightfall, he
missed the coffee and cake that she took at four o’clock. The
snow was in perfect condition, he had travelled a long way,
by himself, among the snow ridges, on his skis, he had
climbed high, so high that he could see over the top of the
pass, five miles distant, could see the Marienhiitte, the hostel
on the crest of the pass, half buried in snow, and over into
the deep valley beyond, to the dusk of the pine trees. One
could go that way home; but he shuddered with nausea at
the thought of home ;—one could travel on skis down there,
and come to the old imperial road, below the pass. But
why come to any road? He revolted at the thought of find-
ing himself in the world again. He must stay up there in
the snow forever. He had been happy by himself, high up
there alone, travelling swiftly on skis, taking far flights, and
skimming past the dark rocks veined with brilliant snow.

But he felt something icy gathering at his heart. This
strange mood of patience and innocence which had per- —
sisted in him for some days, was passing away, he would be
left again a prey to the horrible passions and tortures.

So he came down reluctantly, snow-burned, snow-
estranged, to the house in the hollow, between the knuckles
of the mountain tops. He saw its lights shining yellow, and —
he held back, wishing he need not go in, to confront those —
people, to hear the turmoil of voices and to feel the confu-
sion of other presences. He was isolated as if there were a —
vacuum round his heart, or a sheath of pure ice.

The moment he saw Gudrun something jolted in his soul.
She was looking rather lofty and superb, smiling slowly and ~
graciously to the Germans. A sudden desire leapt in his ©
heart, to kill her. He thought, what a perfect voluptuous —
fulfilment it would be, to kill her. His mind was absent all —
the evening, estranged by the snow and his passion. But —
he kept the idea constant within him, what a perfect volup- —
tuous consummation it would be to strangle her, to strangle ©
every spark of life out of her, till she lay completely inert, —
soft, relaxed for ever, a soft heap lying dead between his —
hands, utterly dead. Then he would have had her finally —
and for ever; there would be such a perfect voluptuous ©
finality. ‘

SNOWED UP 487

Gudrun was unaware of what he was feeling, he seemed so

quiet and amiable, as usual. His amiability even made
her feel brutal towards him.
_ She went into his room when he was partially undressed.
She did not notice the curious, glad gleam of pure hatred,
with which he looked at her. She stood near the door, with
her hand behind her.

** I have been thinking, Gerald,’’ she said, with an in-
sulting nonchalance, ‘‘ that I shall not go back to England.”’

** Oh,” he said, ** where will you go then?”

_ But she ignored his question. She had her own logical
statement to make, and it must be made as she had thought
it.

** I can’t see the use of going back,’ she continued. ‘It
is over between me and you— ”’

She paused for him to speak. But he said nothing. He
was only talking to himself, saying * Over, is it? I believe
it is over. But it isn’t finished. Remember, it isn’t
finished. We must put some sort of a finish on it. There
must be a conclusion, there must be finality.’

So he talked to himself, but aloud he said nothing what-
ever.

** What has been, has been,’’ she continued. ‘‘ There is
nothing that I regret. I hope you regret nothing— ”’

She waited for him to speak.

** Oh, I regret nothing,’’ he said, accommodatingly.

** Good then,’’ she answered, ** good then. Then neither
of us cherishes any regrets, which is as it should be.’?

S* Quite as it should be,’’ he said aimlessly.

‘She paused to gather up her thread again.

** Our attempt has been a failure,” she said. ‘* But we
can try again, elsewhere.’’

A little flicker of rage ran through his blood. It was as if
she were rousing him, goading him. Why must she do it?

** Attempt at what ?’’ he asked.

** At being lovers, I suppose,’’ she said, a little baffled,
yet so trivial she made it all seem.

** Our attempt at being lovers has been a failure??? he
repeated aloud.

To himself he was saying, ‘ I ought to kill her here.
There is only this left, for me to kill her.’ A heavy, over-
charged desire to bring about her death possessed him,
She was unaware.

488 WOMEN IN LOVE

** Hasn’t it??? she asked. ‘* Do you think it has been a
success P??

Again the insult of the flippant question ran through his |
blood like a current of fire.

** It had some of the elements of success, our relation-
ship,’”’ he replied. ‘* It—might have come off.”’ iy
But he paused before concluding the last phrase. Even —
as he began the sentence, he did not believe in what he was
going to say. He knew it never could have been a success.

** No,”’ she replied. ‘* You cannot love.”’

** And you?’’ he asked.

Her wide, dark-filled eyes were fixed on him, like two
moons of darkness.

**T couldn’t love you,’ she said, with stark cold truth.

A blinding flash went over his brain, his body jolted. His
heart kad burst into flame. His consciousness was gone ~
into his wrists, into his hands. He was one blind, incon- ~
tinent desire, to kill-her. His wrists were bursting, there
would be no satisfaction till his hands had closed on her.

But even before his body swerved forward on her, a sud-
den, cunning comprehension was expressed on her face, and
in a flash she was out of the door.. She ran in one flash to
her room and locked herself in. She was afraid, but confi- —
dent. She knew her life trembled on the edge of an abyss. —
But she was curiously sure of her irpeida She knew her ~
cunning could outwit him. a

She trembled, as she stood in her room, with excitement —
and awful exhilaration. She knew she could outwit him. —
She could depend on her presence of mind, and on her wits.
But it was a fight to the death, she knew it now. One slip,
and she was lost. She had a strange, tense, exhilarated —
sickness in her body, as one who is in peril of falling from —
a great height, but who does not look down, does not admit —
the fear. :

** T will go away the day after to-morrow,”’ she said. 4

She only did not want Gerald to think that she was afraid —
of him, that she was running away because she was afraid —
of him. She was not. afraid of him, fundamentally. She
knew it was her safeguard to avoid his physical violence. —
But even physically she was not afraid of him. She wanted ~
to prove it to him. When she had proved it, that, what-
ever he was, she was not afraid of him; when she had proved ~
that, she could leave him forever. But meanwhile the —

SNOWED UP 489

fight between them, terrible as she knew it to be, was in-

conclusive. And she wanted to be confident in herself.
However many terrors she might have, she would be un-
afraid, uncowed by him. He could never cow her, nor
dominate her, nor have any right over her; this she would
maintain until she had proved it. Once it was proved, she

was free of him forever.

_ But she had not proved it yet, neither to him nor to her-
self. And this was what still bound her to him. She was
bound to him, she could not live beyond him. She sat up in
bed, closely wrapped up, for many hours, thinking end-
lessly to herself. It was as if she would never have done
weaving the great provision of her thoughts.

** Tt isn’t as if he really loved me,’’ she said to herself.
** He doesn’t. Every woman he comes across he wants to
make her in love with him. He doesn’t even know that he
is doing it. But there he is, before every woman he unfurls
his male attractiveness, displays his great desirability, he

_ tries to make every woman think how wonderful it would
be to have him fora lover. His very ignoring of the women

is part of the game. He is never unconscious of them. He
should have been a cockerel, so he could strut before fifty
females, all his subjects. But really, his Don Juan does

not interest me. I could play Dona Juanita a million times

EI TER

better than he plays Juan. He bores me, you know. His
maleness bores me. Nothing is so boring, so inherently
stupid and stupidly conceited. Really, the fathom-
less conceit of these men, it is ridiculous—the little
strutters.

** They are all alike. Look at Birkin. Built out of the
limitation of conceit they are, and nothing else. Really,
nothing but their ridiculous limitation and intrinsic insigni-
ficance could make them so conceited. :

** As for Loerke, there is a thousand times more in him
than in a Gerald. Gerald is so limited, there is a dead end
to him. He would grind on at the old mills forever. And
really, there is no corn between the millstones any more.
They grind on and on, when there is nothing to grind—
saying the same things, believing the same things, acting

_ the same things. Oh, my God, it would wear out the

patience of a stone.
** I don’t worship Loerke, but at any rate, he is a free in-

dividual. He is not stiff with conceit of his own maleness.

490 WOMEN IN LOVE

He is not grinding dutifully at the old mills. Oh God, when

I think of Gerald, and his work—those offices at Beldover,
and the mines—it makes my heart sick. What have I to
do with it—and him thinking he can be a lover to a woman !
One might as well ask it of a self-satisfied lamp-post. These
men, with their eternal jobs—and their eternal mills of God
that keep on grinding at nothing! It is too boring, just
boring. However did I come to take him seriously at all!

oS

** At least in Dresden, one will have one’s back to it all. —

And there will be amusing things to do. It will be amusing
to go to these eurythmic displays, and the German opera,
the German theatre. It will be amusing to take part in Ger-
man Bohemian life. And Loerke is an artist, he is a free in-
dividual. One will escape from so much, that is the chief
thing, escape so much hideous boring repetition of vulgar
actions, vulgar phrases, vulgar postures. I don’t delude
myself that I shall find an elixir of life in Dresden. I know
I shan’t. But I shall get away from people who have their
own homes and their own children and their own acquain-
tances and their own this and their own that. I shall be

among people who don’t own things and who haven’t got a

home and a domestic servant in the background, who
haven’t got a standing and a status and a degree and a
circle of friends of the same. Oh God, the wheels within
wheels of people, it makes one’s head tick like a clock, with
a very madness of dead mechanical monotony and meaning-
lessness. How I hate life, how I hate it. How I hate the
Geralds, that they can offer one nothing else.

** Shortlands !—Heavens! Think of living there, one

week, then the next, and then the third

a No, I won’t think of it—it is too much te

And she broke off, really terrified, really unable to ba
any more.

The thought of the mechanical succession of day following ©
day, day following day, ad infinitum, was one of the things
that made her heart palpitate with a real approach of mad-
ness. The terrible bondage of this -tick-tack of time, this
twitching of the hands of the clock, this eternal repetition
of hours and days—oh God, it was too awful to contemplate. —
And there was no escape from it, no escape.

She almost wished Gerald were with her to save her from
the terror of her own thoughts. Oh, how she suffered, lying -
there alone, confronted by the terrible clock, with its eternal —
4

a a

ee

SNOWED UP 49]

tick-tack. All life, all life resolved itself into this: tick-
tack, tick-tack, tick-tack; then the striking of the hour;
then the tick-tack, tick-tack, and the twitching of the
clock-fingers.

Gerald could not save her from it. He, his body, his
motion, his life—it was the same ticking, the same twitching
across the dial, a horrible mechanical twitching forward over
the face of the hours. What were his kisses, his embraces.
She could hear their tick-tack, tick-tack.

Ha—ha—she laughed to herself, so frightened that she —
was trying to laugh it off—ha—ha, how maddening it was,

to be sure, to be sure !

Then, with a fleeting self-conscious motion, she won-
dered if she would be very much surprised, on rising in the
morning, to realise that her hair had turned white. She
had felt it turning white so often, under the intolerable
burden of her thoughts, and her sensations. Yet there it
remained, brown as ever, and there she was herself, look-
ing a picture of health.

Perhaps she was healthy. Perhaps it was only her un-

abateable health that left her so exposed to the truth. If

she were sickly she would have her illusions, imaginations.
As it was, there was no escape. She must always see and
know and never escape. She could never escape. There
she was, placed before the clock-face of life. And if she
turned round as in a railway station, to look at the book-
stall, still she could see, with her very spine, she could see
the clock, always the great white clock-face. In vain she
fluttered the leaves of books, or made statuettes in clay.
She knew she was not really reading. She was not really
working. She was watching the fingers twitch across the
eternal, mechanical, monotonous clock-face of time. She
never really lived, she only watched. Indeed, she was like
a little, twelvechour clock, vis-a-vis with the enormous clock
of eternity—there she was, like Dignity and Impudence, or
Impudence and Dignity.

The picture pleased her. Didn’t her face really look Lilie
a clock dial—rather roundish and often pale, and impassive.
She would have got up to look, in the mirror, but the
thought of the sight of her own face, that was like a twelve-
hour clock-dial, filled her with such deep terror, that she
hastened to think of something else.

Oh, why wasn’t somebody kind to her? Why wasn’t

492 WOMEN IN LOVE

a. pea er Beer ae ie
ith La ae i

there somebody who would take her in their arms, and hold”

her to their breast, and give her rest, pure, deep, healing

rest. Oh, why wasn’t there somebody to take her in their —

arms and fold her safe and perfect, for sleep. She wanted
so much this perfect enfolded sleep. She lay always so un-
sheathed in sleep. She would lie always unsheathed in sleep,

unrelieved, unsaved. Oh, how could she bear it, this end-

less unrelief, this eternal unrelief.

Gerald! Could he fold her in his arms and sheathe her
in sleep? Ha! He needed putting to sleep himselfi—poor
Gerald. That was all he needed.: What did he do, he made
the burden for her greater, the burden of her sleep was the
more intolerable, when he was there. He was an added

weariness upon her unripening nights, her unfruitful slum-

bers. Perhaps he got some repose from her. Perhaps he

did. Perhaps this was what he was always dogging her —

for, like a child that is famished, crying for the breast.

Perhaps this was the secret of his passion, his forever —

unquenched desire for her—that he needed her to put him
to sleep, to give him repose.

What then! Was she his mother? Had she asked for

a child, whom she must nurse through the nights, for her
lover. She despised him, she despised him, she hardened
her heart. An infant crying in the night, this Don Juan.
Ooh, but how she hated the infant crying in the night.
She would murder it gladly. She would stifle it and bury
it, as Hetty Sorrell did. No doubt Hetty Sorrell’s infant
cried in the night—no doubt Arthur Donnithorne’s infant
would. Ha—the Arthur Donnithornes, the Geralds of this

world. So manly by day, yet all the while, such a crying of ©
infants in the night. Let them turn into mechanisms, let —

them. Let them become instruments, pure machines, pure
wills, that work like clock-work, in perpetual repetition.

Let them be this, let them be taken up entirely in their ©

work, let them be perfect parts of a great machine, having a
slumber of constant repetition. Let Gerald manage his
firm. There he would be satisfied, as satisfied as a wheel-
barrow that goes backwards and forwards along a plank all
day—she had seen it.

The wheel-barrow—the one humble wheel—the unit of the
firm. Then the cart, with two wheels; then the truck, with —

_ four; then the donkey-engine, with eight, then the winding-
engine, with sixteen, and so on, till it came to the miner,

.

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SNOWED UP. 493

with a thousand wheels, and then the electrician, with three
thousand, and the underground manager, with twenty-
thousand, and the general manager with a hundred thousand
little wheels working away to complete his make-up, and
then Gerald, with a million wheels and cogs and axles.

Poor Gerald, such a lot of little wheels to his make-up !
He was more intricate than a chronometer-watch. But oh
_ heavens, what weariness! What weariness, God above!

A chronometer-watch—a beetle—her soul fainted with utter
ennui, from the thought. So many wheels to count and
consider and calculate! Enough, enough—there was an
end to man’s capacity for complications, even. Or perhaps
there was no end.

Meanwhile Gerald sat in his room, reading. When Gud-
run was gone, he was left stupified with arrested desire. He
sat on the side of the bed for an hour, stupified, little
strands of consciousness appearing and reappearing. But
he did not move, for a long time he remained inert, his head
dropped on his breast. :

Then he looked up and realised that he was going to bed.
He was cold. Soon he was lying down in the dark.

But what he could not bear was the darkness. The solid
_ darkness confronting him drove him mad. So he rose, and
made a light. He remained seated for a while, staring in
front. He did not think of Gudrun, he did not think of
anything.

Then suddenly he went downstairs for a book. He had
all his life been in terror of the nights that should come,
when he could not sleep. He knew that this would be too
much for him, to have to face nights of sleeplessness and of
horrified watching the hours.

So he sat for hours in bed, like a statue, reading. His
mind, hard and acute, read on rapidly, his body under-
stood nothing. In a state of rigid unconsciousness, he
read on through the night, till morning, when, weary and
disgusted in spirit, disgusted most of all with himself, he
slept for two hours.

Then he got up, hard and full of energy. Gudrun
scarcely spoke to him, except at coffee when she said: ~

** T shall be leaving to-morrow.”’

** We will go together as far as Innsbruck, for appear-
ance’s sake ?’’ he asked.

** Perhaps,’ she said.

494 WOMEN IN LOVE

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joa ; ye a
pane 3

She said ‘ Perhaps ’ between the sips of her coffee. And —

the sound of her taking her breath in the word, was nauseous
to him. He rose quickly to be away from her.

He went and made arrangements for the departure on ;

the morrow. Then, taking some food, he set out for the

day on the skis. Perhaps, he said to the Wirt, he would go }

up to the Marienhiitte, perhaps to the village below.

To Gudrun this day was full of a promise like spring. —
She felt an approaching release, a new fountain of life ris- —

ing up in her. It gave her pleasure to dawdle through her
packing, it gave her pleasure to dip into books, to try on her
different garments, to look at herself in the glass. She felt

a new lease of life was come upon her, and she was happy ~

like a child, very attractive and beautiful to everybody, ~

with her soft, luxuriant figure, and her happiness. Yet
underneath was death itself.

In the afternoon she had to go out with Loerke. Her to-
morrow was perfectly vague before her. This was what

gave her pleasure. She might be going to England with.

Gerald, she might be going to Dresden with Loerke, she
might be going to Munich, to a girl-friend she had there.
Anything might come to pass on the morrow. And to-day
was the white, snowy iridescent threshold of all possibility.
All possibility—that was the charm to her, the lovely, irides-
cent, indefinite charm,—pure illusion. All possibility—be-
cause death was inevitable, and nothing was possible but
death.

She did not want things to materialise, to take any de-

finite shape. She wanted, suddenly, at one moment of the —

journey to-morrow, to be wafted into an utterly new course,

by some utterly unforeseen event, or motion. So that, —
although she wanted to go out with Loerke for the last time
into the snow, she did not want to be serious or business- —

like.

up into odd grimaces on his small-featured face, he looked

an odd little boy-man, a bat. But in his figure, in the —
greeny loden suit, he looked chétif and puny, still strangely

different from the rest.

%

And Loerke was not a serious figure. In his brown ©
velvet cap, that made his head as round as a chestnut, with
the brown-velvet flaps loose and wild over his ears, and a ©
wisp of elf-like, thin black hair blowing above his full, elf- —
like dark eyes, the shiny, transparent brown skin crinkling ~

ee
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SNOWED UP 495

- He had taken a little toboggan, for the two of them, and

they trudged between the blinding slopes of snow, that
burned their now hardening faces, laughing in an endless
sequence of quips and jests and polyglot fancies. The
fancies were the reality to both of them, they were both so
happy, tossing about the little coloured balls of verbal
humour and whimsicality. Their natures seemed to sparkle
in full interplay, they were enjoying a pure game. And
they wanted to keep it on the level of a game, their re-
lationship : such a fine game.

Loerke did not take the toboganning very seriously. He
put no fire and intensity into it, as Gerald did. Which
pleased Gudrun. She was weary, oh so weary of Gerald’s |
gripped intensity of physical motion. Loerke let the sledge
go wildly, and gaily, like a flying leaf, and when, at a bend,
he pitched both her and him out into the snow, he only
waited for them both to pick themselves up unhurt off the
keen white ground, to be laughing and pert as a pixie. She
knew he would be making ironical, playful remarks as he
wandered in hell—if he were in the humour. And that
pleased her immensely. It seemed like a rising above the
dreariness of actuality, the monotony of contingencies.

They played till the sun went down, in pure amusement,
careless and timeless. Then, as the little sledge twirled
riskily to rest at the bottom of the slope,

** Wait ! ’? he said suddenly, and he produced from some-
where a large thermos flask, a packet of Keks, and a bottle
of Schnapps. |

** Oh Loerke,’’? she cried. ‘* What an inspiration! What
a comble de joie indeed! What is the Schnapps ?’’

He looked at it, and laughed.

“** Heidelbeer ! *’ he said.

** No! From the bilberries under the snow. Doesn’t it
look as if it were distilled from snow. Can you— ”’ she
sniffed, and sniffed at the bottle—‘‘ can you smell bilber-
ries? Isn’t it wonderful? It is exactly as if one could
smell them through the snow.”’

She stamped her foot lightly on the ground. He kneeled
down and whistled, and put his ear to the snow. As he did

_ so his black eyes twinkled up.

“Ha! Ha!” she laughed, warmed by the whimsical
way in which he mocked at her verbal extravagances. He
was always teasing her, mocking her ways. But as he in

496 WOMEN IN LOVE

his mockery was even more absurd than she in her extra- i

vagancies, what could one do but laugh and feel liberated.

She could feel their voices, hers and his, ringing silvery —
like bells in the frozen, motionless air of the first twilight. —

How perfect it was, how very perfect it was, this silvery —
isolation and interplay.
She sipped the hot coffee, whose fragrance flew around

them like bees murmuring around flowers, in the snowy air, —
she drank tiny sips of the Heidelbeerwasser, she ate the ©

cold, sweet, creamy wafers. How good everything was!
How perfect everything tasted and smelled and sounded,
here in this utter stillness of snow and falling twilight.

** You are going away to-morrow ?’’ his voice came at
last.

66 Yes.”

There was a pause, when the evening seemed to rise in its

silent, ringing pallor infinitely high, to the infinite which —

was near at hand.

“© W ohin?”’

That was the question—wohin? Whither? Wohin?
What a lovely word! She never wanted it answered. Let
it chime for ever. |

** T don’t know,”’ she said, smiling at him.

He caught the smile from her.

** One never does,’’ he said.

“€ One never does,’’ she repeated.

There was a silence, wherein he ate biscuits rapidly, as a
rabbit eats leaves. |

** But,”’ he laughed, ‘** where will you take a ticket to ?”’

** Oh heaven! *’ she cried. ‘‘ One must take a ticket.’’

Here was a blow. She saw herself at the wicket, at the
railway station. Then a relieving thought came to her.

She breathed freely.
_ €* But one needn’t go,’’ she cried.
** Certainly not,’’ he said.
** IT mean one needn’t go where one’s ticket says.”’
That struck him. One might take a ticket, so as not to

travel to the destination it indicated. One might break off, —

and avoid the destination. A point located. That was an
idea !

‘© Then take a ticket to London,”’ he said. ‘* One should ©

_ never go there.”’
** Right,”’ she answered.

|. ae

aan eee

ms

_

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SNOWED UP 497

He poured a little coffee into a tin can.

** You won’t tell me where you will go ?”’ he asked.

_ Really and truly,’’ she said, “‘ I don’t know. It de-
pends which way the wind blows.”’

He looked at her quizzically, then he pursed up his lips,
like Zephyrus, blowing across the snow.

* It goes towards Germany,”’ he said.

** I believe so,”’ she laughed.

Suddenly, they were aware of a vague white figure near
them. It was Gerald. Gudrun’s heart leapt in sudden
terror, profound terror. She rose to her feet.

- They told me where you were,’”? came Gerald’s voice,
like a judgment in the whitish air of twilight.

** Maria! You come like a ghost,’ exclaimed Loerke.

Gerald did not answer. His presence was unnatural and
ghostly to them.

Loerke shook the flask—then he held it inverted over
the snow. Only a few brown drops trickled out .

** All gone! ”’ he said.

To Gerald, the smallish, odd figure of the German was
distinct and objective, as if seen through field glasses. And
he disliked the small figure exceedingly, he wanted it
removed.

Then Loerke rattled the box which held the biscuits.

** Biscuits there are still,”’ he said. :
And reaching from his seated posture in the sledge, he
handed them to Gudrun. She fumbled, and took one. He
would ‘have held them to Gerald, but Gerald so definitely
_ did not want to be offered a biscuit, that Loerke, rather
vaguely, put the box aside. Then he took up the small

bottle, and held it to the light.

** Also there is some Schnapps,” he said to himself.

Then’ suddenly, he elevated the battle gallantly in the
air, a strange, grotesque figure leaning towards Gudrun, and
said : fe

** Gnadiges Fraulein,’’ he said, ** wohl— ”°

There was a crack, the bottle was flying, Loerke had
started back, the three stood quivering in violent emotion.

Loerke turned to Gerald, a devilish leer on his bright-
skinned face.

** Well done! ’’ he said, in a satirical demoniac frenzy.
** C’est le sport, sans doute.’’

The next instant he was sitting ludicrously in the snow,

21

498 WOMEN IN LOVE

Gerald’s fist having rung against the side of his howe: But
Loerke pulled himself together, rose, quivering, looking full
at Gerald, his body weak and furtive, but his eyes
demoniacal with satire.

** Vive le héros, vive— ’

But he flinched, as, in a ae flash Gerald‘s fist came

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upon him, banged into the other side of his head, and sent ;

him aside like a broken straw.

But Gudrun moved forward. She raised her denchea
hand high, and brought it down, with a great downward ~
stroke on to the face and on to the breast of Gerald.

A great astonishment burst upon him, as if the air had

broken. Wide, wide his soul opened, in wonder, feeling the
pain. Then it laughed, turning, with strong hands out-
stretched, at last to take the apple of his desire. At last
he could finish his desire.

He took the throat of Gudrun between his hands, that
were hard and indomitably powerful. And her throat was

beautifully, so beautifully soft, save that, within, he could ©

feel the slippery chords of her life. And this he crushed,

this he could crush. What bliss! Oh what bliss, at last, —
what satisfaction, at last! The pure zest of satisfaction —
filled his soul. He was watching the unconsciousness come ~
into her swollen face, watching the eyes roll back. How
ugly she was! What a fulfilment, what a satisfaction! —
How good this was, oh how good it was, what a God-given —
gratification, at last! He was unconscious of her fighting —
and struggling. The struggling was her reciprocal lustful —
passion in this embrace, the more violent it became, the —
greater the frenzy of delight, till the zenith was renchetes 4

came softer, appeased.

Loerke roused himself on the snow, too dazed and hue to |

get up. Only his eyes were conscious.

‘‘ Monsieur! ’? he said, in his thin, roused voice 5 am

** Quand vous aurez fini— ”
A revulsion of contempt and disgust, came over Gerald’s

soul. The disgust went to:the very bottom of him, ay

nausea. Ah, what was he doing, to what depths was he —

letting himself go! As if he cared about her enough to kill ’

her, to have her life on his hands !
A weakness ran over his body, a terrible ren a thaws"

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7
4

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SNOWED UP 499

grip, and Gudrun had fallen to her knees. Must he see,
must he know?

A fearful weakness possessed him, his joints were turned
to water. He drifted, as on a wind, veered, and went
drifting away.

‘I didn’t want it, really,’? was the last confession of
disgust in his soul, as he drifted up the slope, weak, finished,
only sheering off unconsciously from any further contact.
** I’ve had enough—I want to go to sleep. I’ve had
enough.’? He was sunk under a sense of nausea.

He was weak, but he did not want to rest, he wanted to
go on and on, to the end. Never again to stay, till he came
to the end, that was all the desire that remained to him.
So he drifted on and on, unconscious and weak, not thinking
of anything, so long as he could keep in action. -

The twilight spread a weird, unearthly light overhead,
bluish-rose in colour, the cold blue night sank on the snow.
In the valley below, behind, in the great bed of snow, were
‘two small figures : Gudrun dropped on her knees, like one
executed, and Loerke sitting propped up near her. That
was all.

Gerald stumbled on up the slope of snow, in the bluish
darkness, always climbing, always unconsciously climbing,
weary though he was. On his left was a steep slope with
black rocks and fallen masses of rock and veins of snow
slashing in and about the blackness of rock, veins of snow
slashing vaguely in and about the blackness of rock. Yet
there was no sound, all this made no noise.

To add to his difficulty, a small bright moon shone bril-
liantly just ahead, on the right, a painful brilliant thing that
was always there, unremitting, from which there was no
escape. He wanted so to come to the end—he had had
enough. Yet he did not sleep. |

He surged painfully up, sometimes having to cross a slope
of black rock, that was blown bare of snow. Here he was
afraid of falling, very much afraid of falling. And high up
here, on the crest, moved a wind that almost overpowered
him with a sleep-heavy iciness. Only it was not here, the
end, and he must still go on. His indefinite nausea would
not let him stay.

Having gained one ridge, he saw the vague shadow of
something higher in front. Always higher, always higher.
He knew he was following the track towards the summit of

500 WOMEN IN LOVE

See ae Big Soh oe ee
“% , Hepeeey ee

the slopes, where was the marienhiitte, and the descent on |
the other side. But he was not really conscious. He only —

wanted to go on, to go on whilst he could, to move, to keep
going, that was all, to keep going, until it was finished. He
had lost all his sense of place. And yet in the remaining
instinct of life, his feet sought the track where the skis had
gone. .

He slithered down a sheer snow slope. That frightened
him. He had no alpenstock, nothing. But having come
safely to rest, he began to walk on, in the illuminated dark-
ness. It was as cold as sleep. He was between two ridges,
in a hollow. So he swerved. Should he climb the other

ridge, or wander along the hollow? How frail the thread of

his being was stretched! He would perhaps climb the
ridge. The snow was firm and simple. He went along.
There was something standing out of the snow. He
approached, with dimmest curiosity.

It was a half-buried Crucifix, a little Christ under a little
sloping hood, at the top of a pole. He sheered away.
Somebody was going to murder him. He had a great dread

of being murdered. But it was a dread which stood outside :

him, like his own ghost.

Yet why be afraid? It was bound to happen. To be —

murdered! He looked round in terror at the snow, the

rocking, pale, shadowy slopes of the upper world. He ~

was bound to be murdered, he could see it. This was the

moment when the death was uplifted, and there was no —

escape.

Lord Jesus, was it then bound to be—Lord Jesus! He

could feel the blow descending, he knew he was murdered.

Vaguely wandering forward, his hands lifted as if to feel

what would happen, he was waiting for the moment when
he would stop, when it would cease. It was not over yet.
He had come to the hollow basin of snow, surrounded by
sheer slopes and precipices, out of which rose a track that
brought one to the top of the mountain. But he wandered
unconsciously, till he slipped and fell down, and as he fell

something broke in his soul, and immediately he went to —

sleep.

LP ry eS ne Te Cee ne Geer agen

a a ae al

At ye ra A ee
7 it wan &

CHAP: XXXI. EXEUNT

WHEN they brought the body home, the next morning, Gud-
run was shut up in her room. From her window she saw
men coming along with a burden, over the snow. She sat
still and let the minutes go by.

There came a tap at her door. She opened. There
‘stood a woman, saying softly, oh, far too reverently :

** They have found him, madam! ”

** Tl est mort ?”’

** Yes—hours ago.’’ |
Gudrun did not know what to say. What should she
say? What should she feel? What should shedo? What

did they expect of her? She was coldly at a loss.

“Thank you,’’ she said, and she shut the door of her
room. The woman went away mortified. Not a word, not
atear—ha! Gudrun was cold, a cold woman.

Gudrun sat on in her room, her face pale and impassive.

What was she to do? She could not weep and make a

scene. She could not alter herself. She sat motionless,
hiding from people. Her one motive was to avoid actual
contact with events. She only wrote out a long telegram
to Ursula and Birkin.

In the afternoon, however, she rose suddenly to look for
Loerke. She glanced with apprehension ‘at the door of the
room that had been Gerald’s. Not for worlds would she
enter there.

She found Loerke sitting alone in the lounge. She went
straight up to him.

** It isn’t true, is it??? she said.

He looked up at her. A small smile of misery twisted his
face. He shrugged his shoulders.

** True ?”’ he echoed.

** We haven’t killed him ?”’ she asked.

He disliked her coming to him in such a manner. He
raised his shoulders wearily.

** It has happened,”’ he said.

She looked at him. He sat crushed and frustrated for the
time being, quite as emotionless and barren as herself. My
God ! this was a barren tragedy, barren, barren.

501

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502 WOMEN IN LOVE

She returned to her room to wait for Ursula and Birkin.
She wanted to get away, only to get away. She could not

think or feel until she had got aeys, till she was loosed
from this position.

The day passed, the next day came. She heard the
sledge, saw Ursula and Birkin alight, and she shrank from
these also.

Ursula came straight up to her.

** Gudrun! ” she cried, the tears running down her
cheeks. And she took her sister in her arms. Gudrun hid

her face on Ursula’s shoulder, but still she could not escape —

the cold devil of irony that froze her soul.

‘‘ Ha, ha! ’’ she thought, “* this is the right behaviour.” —

But she could not weep, and the sight of her cold, pale,
impassive face soon stopped the fountain of Ursula’s tears.
In a few moments, the sisters had nothing to say to each
other.

** Was it very vile to be dragged back here again ?”’ Gud- |

run asked at length.
Ursula looked up in some bewilderment.
** T never thought of it,”’ she said.

“TI felt a beast, fetching you,” said Gudrun. “ But I _

simply couldn’t see people. That is too much for me.”’
** Yes,’ said Ursula, chilled.

Birkin tapped and entered. His face was white and ex- —

pressionless. She knew he knew. He gave her hand,
saying :

** The end of this trip, at any rate.”’

Gudrun glanced at him, afraid.

There was silence between the three of them, nothug to.
be said. At length Ursula asked in a small voice :

** Have you seen him ?”’

He looked back at Ursula with a hard, cold look, and did
not trouble to answer.

** Have you seen him ?”’ she repeated.

** I have,’ he said, coldly.

Then he looked at Gudrun.

** Have you done anything ?”’ he said.

** Nothing,’’ she replied, ‘* nothing.”’

She shrank in cold disgust from making any statement.

** Loerke says that Gerald came to you, when you were

sitting on the sledge at the bottom of the Rudelbahn, that 4

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EXEUNT . 508

words about? I had better know, so that I cap satisfy the
authorities, if necessary.”’

Gudrun looked up at him, white, childlike, mute with
trouble.

‘There weren’t even any words,’? she said. ‘* He
knocked Loerke down and stunned him, he half strangled
me, then he went away.’’ .

To herself she was saying :

*« A pretty little sample of the eternal triangle! ’? And
she turned ironically away, because she knew that the fight
had been between. Gerald and herself and that the presence
of the third party was a mere contingency—an inevitable
contingency perhaps, but a contingency none the less. But
let them have it as an example of the eternal triangle, the
trinity of hate. It would be simpler for them.

Birkin went away, his manner cold and abstracted. But
she knew he would do things for her, nevertheless, he would
see her through. She smiled slightly to herself, with con-
tempt. Let him do the work, since he was so extremely
good at looking after other people.

Birkin went again to Gerald. He had loved him. And

yet he felt chiefly disgust at the inert body lying there. It

was so inert, so coldly dead, a carcase, Birkin’s bowels
seemed to turn to ice. He had to stand and look at the
frozen dead body that had been Gerald.

It was the frozen carcase of a dead male. Birkin re-
membered a rabbit which he had once found frozen like a>
board on the snow. It had been rigid like a dried board
when he picked it up. And now this was Gerald, stiff as a
board, curled up as if for sleep, yet with the horrible hard-
ness somehow evident. It filled him with horror. The
room must be made warm, the body must be thawed. The
limbs would break like glass or like wood if they had to be
straightened..

He reached and touched the dead face. And the sharp,
heavy bruise of ice bruised his living bowels. He won-
dered if he himself were freezing too, freezing from the in-
side. In the short blond moustache the life-breath was
frozen into a block of ice, beneath the silent nostrils. And
this was Gerald !

Again he touched the sharp, almost glittering fair hair of
the frozen body. It was icy-cold, hair icy-cold, almost
venomous. Birkin’s heart began to freeze. He had loved

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504 - WOMEN IN LOVE De

Gerald. Now he looked at the shapely, strange-coloured ’
face, with the small, fine, pinched nose and the manly

cheeks, saw it frozen like an ice-pebble—yet he had loved it.

What was one to think or feel? His brain was beginning —

to freeze, his blood was turning to ice-water. So cold, so

cold, a heavy, bruising cold pressing on his arms from out-—
side, and a heavier cold congealing within him, in his heart —

and in his bowels.

He went over the snow slopes, to see where the death had-
been. At last he came to the great shallow among the
precipices and slopes, near the summit of the pass. It was
a grey day, the third day of greyness and stillness. All

was white, icy, pallid, save for the scoring of black rocks —

that jutted like roots sometimes, and sometimes were in
naked faces. In the distance a slope sheered down from a
peak, with many black rock-slides.

It was like a shallow pot lying among the stone and snow
of the upper world. In this pot Gerald had gone to sleep.
At the far end, the guides had driven iron stakes deep into
the snow-wall, so that, by means of the great rope attached,

they could haul themselves up the massive snow-front, out —

on to the jagged summit of the pass, naked to heaven, where

the Marienhiitte hid among the naked rocks. Round about,

spiked, slashed snow-peaks pricked the heaven.

Gerald might have found this rope. He might have
hauled himself up to the crest. He might have heard the —
dogs in the Marienhiitte, and found shelter. He might have ©
gone on, down the steep, steep fall of the south-side, down —
into the dark valley with its pines, on to the great Imperial —

road leading south to Italy.

He might! And what then? The Imperial road! The f
south? Italy? Whatthen? Wasitaway out? It was
only a way in again. Birkin stood high in the painful air,

looking at the peaks, and the way south. Was it any good ~
going south, to Italy? Down the old, old Imperial road?

He turned away. Either the heart would break, or cease —
to care. Best cease to care. Whatever the mystery which —

has brought forth man and the universe, it is a non-human
mystery, it has its cwn great ends, man is not the criterion.
Best leave it all to the vast, creative, non-human mystery
Best strive with oneself only, not with the universe.

** God cannot do without man.”’ It was a saying of some
great French religions teacher. But surely this is false.

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God can do without man. God could do without the
ichthyosauri and the mastodon. These monsters failed
ereatively to develop, so God, the creative mystery, dis-
pensed with them. In the same way the mystery could dis-
pense with man, should he too fail creatively to change and
develop. The eternal creative mystery could dispose of
man, and replace him with a finer created being. Just as
the horse has taken the place of the mastodon.

It was very consoling to Birkin, to think this. If
humanity ran into a cul de sac, and expended itself, the
timeless creative mystery would bring forth some other
being, finer, more wonderful, some new, more lovely race, to
carry on the embodiment of creation. The game was never
up. The mystery of creation was fathomless, infallible, in-
exhaustible, forever. Races came and went, species passed
away, but ever new species arose, more lovely, or equally
lovely, always surpassing wonder. The fountain-head was
incorruptible and unsearchable. It had no limits. It
could bring forth miracles, create utter new races and new
species, in its own hour, new forms of consciousness, new
forms of body, new units of being. To be man was as
nothing compared to the possibilities of the creative mys-
tery. To have one’s pulse beating direct from the mystery,
this was perfection, unutterable satisfaction. Human or
inhuman mattered nothing. The perfect pulse throbbed
with indescribable being, miraculous unborn species.

Birkin went home again to Gerald. He went into the
room, and sat down on the bed. Dead, dead and cold!

** Imperial Caesar dead, and turned to clay
Would stop a hole to keep the wind away.”’

There was no response from that which had been Gerald.
Strange, congealed, icy substance—no more. No more!
Terribly weary, Birkin went away, about the day’s busi-
ness. He did it all quietly, without bother. To rant, to
rave, to be tragic, to make situations—it was all too late.
Best be quiet, and bear one’s soul in patience and in fulness.
But when he went in again, at evening, to look at
Gerald between the candles, because of his heart’s hunger,
suddenly his heart contracted, his own candle all but fell
from his hand, as, with a strange whimpering cry, the tears
broke out. He sat down in a chair, shaken by a sudden

him, : as he sat with sunken head and ere convulsive q
shaken, making a strange, horrible sound of tears. a
** I didn’t want it to be like this—I didn’t want it to be ©
like this,’’ he cried to himself. Ursula could but think — :
of the Kaiser’s : “ Ich habe as nicht gewollt.”? She looked
almost with horror on Birkin. yl
Suddenly he was silent. But he sat with his head
_ dropped, to hide his face. Then furtively he wiped his face
with his fingers. Then suddenly he lifted his head, and
looked straight at Ursula, with dark, almost vengeful eyes.
** He should have loved me,” he said. ‘*I offered
him.”’ f
She, afraid, white, with mute lips answered :
** What difference would it have made! ”’ s
~** Tt would! ’ he said. ‘* It would.” s
He forgot-her, and turned to look at Gerald. With head ~
oddly lifted, like a man who draws his head back from an

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insult, half haughtily, he watched the cold, mute, material
face. It had a bluish cast. It sent a shaft like ice through
the heart of the living man. Cold, mute, material! Birkin 4
remembered how once Gerald had clutched his hand, with a
warm, momentaneous grip of final love. For one second— ~ a
then let go again, let go for ever. If he had kept true to
that clasp, death would not have mattered. Those who ~
die, and dying still can love, still believe, do not die. They ©
live still in the beloved. Gerald might still have been living
in the spirit with Birkin, even after death. He might have ~
lived with his friend, a further life. a
But now he was dead, like clay, like bluish, corruptible fi
ice. Birkin looked at the pale fingers, the inert mass. He
- remembered a dead stallion he had seen: a dead mass of q
maleness, repugnant. He remembered also the beautiful
face of one whom he had loved, and who had died still ~
having the faith to yield to the mystery. That dead face | 3
was beautiful, no one could call it cold, mute, material.
No one could remember it without gaining faith in the
mystery, without the soul’s warming with new, deep life~; 4
trust. q
And Gerald! The abner He left the heart cold, a
frozen, hardly able to beat. Gerald’s father had looked —
wistful, to break the heart : but not this last terrible look ©
of cold, mute Matter. Birkin watched vt watched. .

EXEUNT 507

~ Ursula stood aside watching the living man stare at the

frozen face of the dead man. Both faces were unmoved.

and unmoving. The candle-flames flickered in the frozen

air, in the intense silence.

** Haven’t you seen enough r’’ she said.

He got up.

** It’s a bitter thing to me,”’ he said.

** What—that he’s dead ?”’ she said.

His eyes just met hers. He did not answer.

-** You’ve got me,’’ she said.

He smiled and kissed her.

** Tf I die,’ he said, ** you’ll know I haven’t left you.”’

** And me ?”’ she cried.

** And you won’t have left me,’’ he said. ‘* We shan’t
have any need to despair, in death.”’ |

She took hold of his hand.

** But need you despair over Gerald ?”’ she said.

** Yes,’’ he answered.

They went away. Gerald was taken to England, to be
buried. Birkin and Ursula accompanied the body, along
with one of Gerald’s brothers. It was the Crich brothers
and sisters who insisted on the burial in England. Birkin
wanted to leave the dead man in the Alps, near the snow.
But the family was strident, loudly insistent.

Gudrun went to Dresden. She wrote no particulars of
herself. Ursula stayed at the Mill with Birkin for a week

-ortwo. They were both very quiet.

** Did you need Gerald ?”’ she asked one evening.

** Yes,’’ he said.

** Aren’t I enough for you?’ she asked.

** No,”’ he said. ‘* You are enough for me, as far as a
woman is concerned. You are all women to me. But I
wanted a man friend, as eternal as you and I are eternal.”’
_ ** Why aren’t I enough?” she said. ‘*‘ You are enough
forme. I don’t want anybody else but you. Why isn’t it

_ the same with you?”

;
4
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q
if

F

** Having you, I can live all my life without anybody else,
any other sheer intimacy. But to make it-complete, really
happy, I wanted eternal union with a man too: another
kind of love,’ he said..

“ T don’t believe it, ? she said. ‘* It’s an obstinacy, a
theory, a perversity.’’

** Well— ” he said.

she said. 1 Ne ate ea
_ “I don’t believe that,” he answered.

tae
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